Emma  Speed  Sampson 


/ 


The  Shorn   Lamb 


The 

Shorn  Lamb 


BY 

Emma  Speed  Sampson 

Author    of 

"Mammy's    White    Polks," 
"Billy    and    the    Major," 
"Mies    Minerva's    Baby" 


Chicago 
The   Reilly   &   Lee   Co. 


Printed  in   the   United  States  of  America 


Copyright,    1922 

by 
The    Reilly    &     Lee    C  •  . 


All    Rights    Reserved 


Tli  e    Shorn    Lamb 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

1  A  MULTIPLICITY  OF  PARENTS 9 

2  "  I'M  REBECCA  TAYLOR  " 32 

3  MILL  HOUSE  FOLKS 42 

4  REBECCA  ASKS  REFERENCES 64 

5  AUNT  TESTY  TAKES  CHARGE 74 

6  IN  AUNT  PEACH Y'S  REALM 90 

7  PHILIP'S  HOME-COMING 106 

8  REBECCA  GETS  ACQUAINTED 114 

9  A  RELUCTANT  KNIGHT  ERRANT 130 

10  CHARMS  AND  PICTURES 146 

11  MAGIC  —  BLACK  AND  WHITE 157 

12  AUNT  PEARLY  GATES'  WISDOM 177 

13  SPOTTSWOOD  CAPITULATES 188 

14  A  VERY  DARK  INCUBATOR 213 

15  A  FEARSOME  STORY 225 

16  MAJOR  TAYLOR  IN  DOUBT 240 

17  BETSY'S  MORTIFICATION 250 

18  THE  MISSING  DEED  BOOK 262 

19  AUNT  PEACHY  GLOATS 278 

20  THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  PROOF 287 

21  THE  DANCING  MAMMA  Is  FOUND  .  . .  298 

22  A  TERRIFIED  CONJURER 306 

23  THE  LOST  Is  FOUND 317 

24  THE  CLOUDS  BREAK 325 


1824044 


"(Bob  tempers  tbe  win&  to 
tbe  sborn  lamb" 


The  Shorn  Lamb 

Chapter  1 
A  MULTIPLICITY  OF  PARENTS 

"I'll  be  hanged  if  I  give  up  my  lower  to  her 
even  though  she  is  a  hundred  years  old,"  mut- 
tered Philip  Boiling  to  himself  as  he  tried  to 
make  room  for  his  belongings  in  the  Pullman 
section,  already  overflowing  with  a  miscellaneous 
collection  of  boxes  and  bags.  Crouched  in  the 
corner  was  a  tiny  little  old  lady.  She  held  a 
newspaper  before  her  face  with  trembling  hands, 
encased  in  black  cotton  gloves  several  sizes  too 
large. 

"I  reckon  I'll  have  to,  though,"  he  added. 
"  Such  an  old  lady  would  be  more  trouble  over 
one  than  under — and  then,  besides,  I  shouldn't 
be  grouchy." 

Suddenly  he  burst  out  laughing,  and  then  to 
hide  his  merriment  he  pretended  to  sneeze.  The 
little  oM  woman,  who  dropped  her  newspaper 
as  the  train  started,  turned  out  to  be  not  a  little 
old  woman  at  all  but  a  little  girl  in  her  early 

9 


10  The  Shorn  Lamb 

teens.  She  was  a  sallow-faced  little  creature 
who  seemed  to  be  all  eyes.  Her  little  figure  was 
lost  in  the  folds  of  a  black  cotton  blouse,  much 
too  large  for  her,  and  on  her  head  was  a  mourn- 
ing bonnet  of  the  type  usually  worn  by  widows, 
with  white  niching  showing  in  a  line  next  to  her 
face  and  a  heavy  crepe  veil  hanging  down 
behind. 

"I  hope  you  haven't  caught  cold,  sir,"  she 
said  as  Philip  pretended  to  sneeze.  "Mrs. 
O'Shea  told  me  sleeping  cars  were  mighty  good 
places  to  catch  colds  in  and  she  put  in  some 
castor  oil  in  case  I  should  feel  a  cold  coming  on. 
There'll  be  plenty  for  you  to  have  some,  too, 
and  I'd  be  delighted  to  give  it  to  you." 

"Thank  you!  I  wouldn't  deprive  you  for 
worlds,"  smiled  Philip.  "I  don't  believe  it  is  a 
cold — just  train  smoke." 

"  Well,  if  you  want  some  you  must  ask  me  for 
it.  You  see  I  have  never  had  the  pleasure  of 
giving  anybody  a  dose  of  castor  oil,  and  I'd 
simply  love  to  do  it.  It  must  be  delightful  to  be 
the  one  to  do  the  giving.  When  the  Bible  says 
it  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  receive,  maybe  it 
means  castor  oil." 

"Maybe!"  assented  Philip. 

"  I  believe  we  are  to  keep  house  together  for 
the  journey.  Mrs.  O'Shea  told  me  someone 


A  Multiplicity  of  Parents        11 

would  occupy  the  apartment  with  me,  but  she 
was  sure  it  would  be  a  lady.  Mrs.  O'Shea  is 
most  particular.  She  is  the  most  ladyfiedish 
person  in  the  world.  She  told  me  I  mustn't  talk 
to  anyone  on  the  train  unless  it  was  the  lady 
who  was  in  the  apartment  with  me  or  a  man 
in  brass  buttons.  Of  course  since  you  are  not 
a  lady  I  shall  have  to  pretend  you  are  to  talk 
to  you.  Mrs.  O'Shea  would  not  have  me  to  be 
rude  to  the  person  who  was  going  to  keep  house 
with  me.  Mrs.  O'Shea  is  terribly  particular 
about  manners." 

"And  who  is  Mrs.  O'Shea?"  asked  Philip, 
who  was  feeling  like  laughing  again  and  won- 
dering how  he  would  hide  it. 

"Oh!  she  is  a  lady  friend,"  replied  the  child 
primly,  "almost  the  only  perfect  lady  friend 
Daddy  and  I  had.  We  had  lots  of  nice  men 
friends  and  a  few  painty  and  modelly  girls  we 
liked  a  lot,  but  Mrs.  O'Shea  can't  abide  'em, 
and  after  Daddy  died  she  wouldn't  let  me  see 
any  of  them.  She  just  took  matters  in  her 
own  hands  and  managed  some  mourning  clothes 
for  me,  and  wrote  to  my  grandfather  down  in 
Virginia,  and  got  me  a  ticket  and  put  me  on 
the  train.  Mrs.  O'Shea  is  a  terribly  managy 
person.  Not  that  I  am  not  very  grateful  to  her 
for  taking  so  much  interest  in  me,  but  I  wanted 


12  The  Shorn  Lamb 

to  see  some  of  the  others  before  I  left  New 
York." 

The  child's  lip  trembled  and  her  eyes  filled. 
She  felt  in  her  pocket  and  produced  a  handker- 
chief with  a  broad  black  hem  and  wiped  away 
the  tears;  then  blew  her  nose. 

"You  must  excuse  me,  but  sometimes  I  have 
to  leak  a  little.  Mrs.  O'Shea  says  it  is  quite 
ladylike  to  cry,  but  one  must  do  it  without  blow- 
ing one's  nose.  I  haven't  learned  how  yet.  Of 
course  Mrs.  O'Shea  has  had  so  much  practice. 
She  has  lost  four  husbands,  besides  a  mother 
and  father,  two  stepmothers  and  one  stepfather 
and  quite  a  batch  of  uncles  and  aunts  and  cous- 
ins and  some  stepchildren,  but  I  don't  believe 
she  had  to  keep  from  blowing  her  nose  when 
they  died.  She  never  said  so — she's  too  ladylike 
to  say  anything,  even  about  stepchildren,  but 
she  used  to  tell  me  all  the  things  she  wouldn't 
say  about  them.  I  felt  kind  of  sad  about  the 
stepchildren  because  I'm  some  myself." 

"Some  of  hers?"  asked  Philip. 

"Oh,  my,  no!  None  of  my  fathers  would 
have  married  Mrs.  O'Shea,  even  if  she  had 
sighed  herself  to  death.  You  see  she  used  to 
clean  up  our  studio,  and  darn  our  stockings, 
and  wash  up  the  tea  things,  and  brush  my  hair, 
and  do  all  kinds  of  odd  jobs  for  us.  No,  I  am 


A  Multiplicity  of  Parents       13 

Daddy's  stepchild — at  least  I  was."  Again  the 
pocket  was  found  and  the  mourning  bordered 
handkerchief  brought  into  play.  "And  I  was 
papa's  stepchild  and  then  mamma's." 

"Daddy  and  I  weren't  much  like  steps, 
though.  He  wasn't  a  bit  particular  and  neither 
was  I,  so  we  got  along  something  scrumptious. 
Of  course  Daddy  had  a  few  rules  of  conduct, 
and  I  tried  not  to  break  them,  unless  it  seemed 
wisest.  He  used  to  tell  me  to  use  my  judgment 
about  such  matters.  You  see  Daddy  was  an 
individualist,  and  he  believed  in  everybody's  liv- 
ing his  own  life." 

"I  see!"  said  Philip.  "But  what  were  the 
few  rules?" 

"One  of  them  was,  I  must  watch  the  traffic 
cop  and  wait  till  he  gave  the  signal  before  I 
crossed  the  street." 

"A  good  rule  of  conduct,"  laughed  the  young 
man. 

"And  another  rule  was  that  I  mustn't  sass 
old  people  until  they  first  sassed  me." 

"Excellent!" 

"One  reason  Daddy  was  so  inclined  to  feel 
that  I  must  work  out  my  own  destiny — that 
is  the  way  he  put  it — was  that  he  and  I  were 
so  terribly  far  removed  as  far  as  blood  went, 
but  we  got  along  just  fine.  Would  you  like  to 


14  The  Shorn  Lamb 

hear  all  about  my  funny  relations  to  poor 
Daddy?" 

The  young  man  expressed  his  desire  to  hear. 
The  little  girl  was  more  entertaining  than  his 
own  dull  musings.  Philip  Boiling's  own  rather 
lonely  boyhood  had  sharpened  his  sympathies, 
instead  of  stunting  them.  The  little  creature 
whom  Fate  had  decreed  was  to  set  up  "house- 
keeping" with  him  for  the  journey  would  have 
touched  a  harder  heart  than  his,  with  her  pa- 
thetic mouth  and  her  great  dark  eyes  that  one 
moment  showed  unfathomed  depths  of  despair 
and  another  sparkled  with  humor. 

"Won't  you  take  off  your  hat  first?"  he  sug- 
gested. "One  can't  go  to  housekeeping  very 
well  in  a  great  bonnet.  Let  me  hang  it  up 
for  you." 

"We-ell,  it  is  rather  heavy,  but  Mrs.  O'Shea 
did  not  tell  me  whether  I  was  to  take  it  off  or 
not.  Mrs.  O'Shea  spent  a  night  on  a  sleeper 
once,  a  long,  long  time  ago,  when  she  was  mar- 
ried to  her  first.  Of  course  she  could  tell  me 
just  what  I  must  and  mustn't  take  off,  but  she 
didn't  mention  my  bonnet.  She  told  me  par- 
ticularly not  to  leave  anything  in  the  dressing 
room  because  the  porter  would  steal  it.  I  don't 
believe  the  porter  would  want  a  widow's  bonnet 
though,  do  you?" 


A  Multiplicity  of  Parents       15 

Philip  thought  not,  but  assured  her  he  would 
hang  the  bonnet  on  a  hook  right  in  their  section. 

"Mrs.  O'Shea  doesn't  like  colored  persons 
and  always  takes  for  granted  they  will  steal ;  but 
as  for  me,  I  simply  adore  them.  Daddy  said 
I  inherit  liking  them  from  my  first  father,  who 
was  a  Southern  man.  He  liked  'em  a  whole 
lot." 

'You  promised  to  tell  me  about  your  rela- 
tions to  your  stepfather,"  suggested  Philip  as  he 
settled  the  bonnet  on  a  safe  hook  and  then  smiled 
into  the  eyes  of  his  little  companion.  She  had 
drawn  off  her  huge  cotton  gloves,  disclosing 
small,  delicately  shaped  hands,  which  she  folded 
primly  in  her  lap.  Her  little  face  was  much 
more  childlike  now  that  the  ugly  bonnet  was 
gone.  The  corners  of  her  mouth  came  up  as 
though  the  weight  of  the  bonnet  had  held  them 
down.  Her  blue-black  hair  had  broken  from 
the  tight  braids  into  which  Mrs.  O'Shea  had 
plaited  it  and  curled  rebelliously  over  the  small, 
well-shaped  head. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  settling  herself  comfortably 
and  smiling  into  the  frank  blue  eyes  of  her  new 
friend,  "I  might  just  as  well  begin  at  the  begin- 
ning. I  always  went  with  the  studio,  kind  of 
like  a  cat  or  the  gas  range.  Maybe  that  isn't 
the  beginning,  though.  I  guess  my  mother  and 


16  The  Shorn  Lamb 

father  are  the  beginning,  although  the  studio 
is  something  that  kept  on  staying,  and  I  believe 
I'm  going  to  miss  it  something  awful. 

"My  Father,  my  first  father,  I  mean,  was  a 
great  big  man,  with  shiny  yellow  hair,  and  he 
was  an  artist.  Daddy  says  he  would  have  been 
a  great  artist  if  he  had  lived  long  enough. 
Daddy  used  to  know  him  real  well  and  used  to 
sigh  and  sigh  when  he  turned  over  his  drawings 
in  the  big  portfolio." 

"  Then  the  studio  must  have  started  with  your 
father,'*  suggested  Philip. 

"Yes,  he  was  the  first.  It  was  a  great  big 
studio  down  on  West  Tenth,  and  you  had  to  go 
through  somebody's  house  to  get  to  it,  unless 
you  wanted  to  go  over  the  roof  and  down  the 
Mygatts'  fire  escape.  Sometimes  Daddy  and  I 
chose  that  route,  when  we  were  hard  up  and 
didn't  want  to  meet  the  person  in  the  house  in 
front  who  had  a  way  of  collecting  rents.  It  was 
the  charmingest  studio  in  the  whole  village  be- 
cause it  had  outside  steps  and  a  little  porch. 
Just  think  of  a  porch  in  New  York!  One  time 
it  used  to  be  over  a  stable,  but  by  and  by  the 
stahle  got  to  be  a  garage.  Things  changed  all 
around,  but  the  studio  was  always  just  the  same. 
It  was  big  and  had  side  windows  and  a  skylight, 
too,  and  all  kinds  of  nice  cubby  holes  and  cor- 


A  Multiplicity  of  Parents       17 

ners,  and  we  had  a  gas  stove  in  one  corner  be- 
hind a  screen,  and  a  bath  tub  in  another,  and 
nice  soft  divans  all  around  and  you  could  sleep 
on  any  one  you'd  a  mind  to. 

"My  first  father  married  my  first  mother  in 
Paris.  I  was  born  on  shipboard  on  the  way 
back  to  New  York.  I  was  always  sorry  I  wasn't 
born  in  the  studio.  Mother  was  a  singer  and  a 
Bohemian,  I  mean  a  really,  truly  Bohemian, 
not  just  a  villager.  I  can  remember  her  real 
well,  and  can  remember  my  father  some.  I  can 
remember  how  shiny  his  hair  was  when  he  stood 
under  the  skylight  and  painted  my  mother,  and 
I  can  remember  the  way  he  laughed.  He  was 
always  laughing.  He  used  to  laugh  at  the  way 
my  mother  talked  and  the  way  I  walked.  You 
see  I  was  only  about  half  past  four  when  he 
died.  He  used  to  tell  jokes  and  stories  all  about 
the  colored  people  from  down  South,  and  every- 
body loved  him.  We  had  parties  all  the  time, 
because  my  mother  was  so  gay.  She  used  to 
sing  at  the  parties  and  I'd  go  to  sleep  on  any 
divan  where  there  was  room.  I  used  to  be  very 
happy. 

"Then  when  my  first  father  died  my  first 
mother  pretty  near  died  too.  She  screamed  and 
screamed,  and  wanted  to  kill  herself,  but  Mrs. 
O'Shea,  who  lived  in  the  back  room  in  the  house 


18  The  Shorn  Lamb 

in  front  of  us,  came  over  and  talked  to  her  and 
comforted  her,  because  you  see  Mrs.  O'Shea  had 
lost  so  many  husbands  she  knew  all  about  how 
hard  it  was,  and  there  was  nothing  she  couldn't 
tell  about  what  to  do.  Mrs.  O'Shea  has  always 
come  over  and  'tended  to  our  funerals. 

"  By  and  by  my  mother  smiled  again,  and  we 
had  parties  again,  and  one  day  she  came  in  and 
kissed  me  and  said:  'Rebecca,  here  is  a  new 
father  for  you!'  The  new  father  was  the  kind 
of  Bohemian  mother  was,  and  he  didn't  like  to 
work  a  bit.  He  was  very  handsome,  with  a  black 
mustache  and  white  teeth.  Mother  had  to  sing 
awfully  hard  to  keep  my  new  father  com- 
fortable, and  she  got  so  thin  with  engagements 
that  she  was  afraid  she  would  fall  down  the 
cracks  in  the  studio  floor.  Then  she  caught  cold 
and  before  you  know  it  Mrs.  O'Shea  had  to 
come  over  and  look  after  another  funeral." 

"How  old  were  you  then?"  asked  Philip. 

"  I  was  seven.  I  felt  very  lonesome  and  mis- 
erable when  my  mother  was  gone.  She  was  the 
gayest  mother  in  the  world  and  never  was  cross, 
but  my  second  father  was  not  a  bit  gay,  just 
lazy.  He  was  kind  enough  and  he  loved  me  — 
maybe  because  I  waited  on  him  so  much.  Mrs. 
O'Shea  wanted  me  to  come  and  sleep  at  her 
house,  but  he  wouldn't  let  me,  and  he  wept  over 


A  Multiplicity  of  Parents       19 

me,  and  begged  me  not  to  leave  him  all  forlorn 
and  lonesome,  and  besides,  I  didn't  want  to 
leave  the  studio  because  I  loved  it." 

The  child  paused  a  moment  and  her  eyes 
looked  as  full  of  mystery  and  as  unfathomable 
as  the  corners  of  the  beloved  studio  of  which 
she  was  dreaming. 

"But  this  second  father  of  mine  —  I  called 
him  Papa — got  over  being  so  sad  after  a  while, 
and  he  brought  a  very  pretty  lady  home  one  day 
and  told  me  I  had  a  new  mamma.  She  was  a 
Southerner,  from  Georgia.  I  called  her  Mamma. 
She  was  kind  sometimes,  and  sometimes  she  was 
cross.  She  used  to  get  very  angry  with  Papa 
because  he  was  so  lazy.  Mamma  was  a  dancer 
and  made  a  great  deal  of  money.  She  wanted 
Papa  to  learn  to  dance  with  her,  and  he  could 
do  it  beautifully,  but  he  would  get  so  tired  and 
refuse  to  practice.  He  wouldn't  even  play  the 
piano  for  her,  and  she  got  a  Victrola,  and  he 
wouldn't  even  wind  it  up.  I  learned  to  do  that, 
though,  and  I  used  to  make  her  coffee  and  take 
it  to  her  in  the  morning  and  she  would  pet  me 
and  praise  me.  Papa  got  lazier  and  lazier  and 
one  morning  he  just  refused  to  get  out  of  bed. 
You  should  have  heard  Mamma  quarrel  with 
him  then!  *  Loafer!  Rapscallion!  Sponger.' 
There  were  worse  things,  too,  but  Mrs.  O'Shea 


20  The  Shorn  Lamb 

told  me  I  must  try  to  forget  the  bad  things,  and 
I'm  trying  to. 

"  Mamma  was  learning  a  dance  with  a  dagger 
in  it,  and  it  had  a  wild  tune  that  kind  of  got  on 
Papa's  nerves,  and  she  practiced  it  all  the  time, 
and  danced  and  danced.     I  had  to  keep  the 
Victrola  going  for  hours  at  a  time  and  play  the 
same  record  over  and  over,  and  she  would  whirl 
around  and  around  and  pretend  to  stick  the 
dagger  in  Papa.    She  was  just  teasing  him  and 
I  knew  it  and  laughed,  until  I  saw  he  was  scared 
of  her.     My,  she  was  pretty  when  she  whirled 
around!     The   dagger   wasn't  anything  but  a 
paper  knife  and  couldn't  have  hurt  him  even  if 
she  had  struck  real  hard.    One  day  she  had  prac- 
ticed her  dance  until  she  knew  it  almost  per- 
fectly, and  was  just  going  to  stop.     She  sig- 
naled to  me  to  stop  the  Victrola  and  then  she 
gave  a  final  whirl  and  twirled  on  her  toes  right 
by  Papa's  couch.     He  had  not  been  off  it  for 
weeks   then.     Every   morning   he   bathed   and 
dressed  and  got  back  on  his  couch,  where  he 
smoked  and  dozed  all  day.     As  I  was  saying, 
Mamma  gave  a  twirl  and  cried  out:    *  Loafer!' 
and  pretended  to  stick  the  dagger  in  Papa's 
heart.    But  just  before  she  touched  him  she  saw 
his  eyes  and  gave  a  scream  and  dropped  by  his 
side,  and  I  didn't  know  it  wasn't  part  of  her 


A  Multiplicity  of  Parents       21 

dance,  and  I  clapped  my  hands  the  way  she 
liked  me  to  do  because  she  said  one  could  dance 
so  much  better  if  some  one  applauded. 

"Mrs.  O'Shea  had  to  come  over  and  look 
after  another  funeral.  The  doctor  said  Papa 
had  died  of  heart  disease  and  must  have  had  it 
a  long  time,  and  that  was  what  made  him  so 
lazy.  Poor  Mamma  cried  and  cried  and  said 
her  heart  was  broken,  too,  just  like  Papa's,  and 
that  she  could  never  dance  again,  but  by  and  by 
she  did,  and  she  made  a  big  hit  with  the  very 
dance  she  had  been  studying  so  hard. 

"Now  this  is  where  Daddy  comes  in  and  he 
was  the  best  of  all.  Of  course  my  first  father 
was  best  but  I  can't  remember  him  the  way  I 
can  Daddy.  Mrs.  O'Shea  says  it  is  proper 
always  to  say  you  love  your  own  mother  and 
father  better  than  any  steps.  Daddy  saw 
Mamma  do  the  dagger  dance  and  he  fell  head 
over  heels  in  love  with  her  and  came  to  call  on 
her  at  the  studio  where  she  just  stayed  on  after 
Papa  died  because  it  was  big  and  gave  her  room 
for  practice,  and  the  lease  wasn't  up,  and  then 
I  loved  it  so  and  hated  to  think  of  moving. 

"Daddy  got  to  coming  to  see  us  every  day 
and  he  fell  in  love  with  me,  too,  so  he  said,  and 
by  and  by  he  and  Mamma  went  to  the  Little 
Church  Around  the  Corner  and  got  married, 


The  Shorn  Lamb 

with  me  for  a  bridesmaid.  I  was  awfully  glad, 
but  I  felt  real  mean  not  to  warn  Daddy  about 
how  cross  Mamma  got  sometimes.  He  thought 
she  was  an  angel  and  used  to  tell  her  so,  and  she 
would  look  like  one,  too.  Mamma  was  as  pretty 
as  pretty  can  be,  and  Daddy  used  to  make 
poetry  to  her.  Daddy  was  a  poet,  you  know, 
but  he  didn't  make  a  living  writing  poetry,  but 
had  to  write  what  he  called  'rot'  for  Sunday 
papers  to  make  money. 

"We  got  along  pretty  well  for  awhile, 
although  every  now  and  then  Mamma  would  fly 
off  the  handle  and  make  things  hum  for  Daddy 
and  me,  and  then  we'd  go  out  walking,  and 
sometimes  go  spend  the  day  at  the  Zoo  or  down 
to  Coney  Island,  and  when  we'd  come  back  she 
would  have  quieted  down.  I  was  nine  then.  I 
don't  know  what  I'd  have  done  without  Daddy. 
He  was  the  dearest  little  man  and  so  kind  and 
so  clever  I  think  he  got  over  being  in  love  with 
Mamma  because  she  had  a  limited  intelligence. 
I  got  that  from  him,  but  he  was  sorry  he  said  it 
and  asked  me  to  forget  it.  She  had  more  sense 
in  her  toes  than  in  her  head. 

"  Suddenly  Mamma  got  so  she  didn't  like  me 
any  more.  I  had  been  the  biggest  kind  of  pet, 
and  all  of  a  heap  she  began  treating  me  like  she 
did  poor  Papa,  only  she  couldn't  call  me  loafer 


A  Multiplicity  of  Parents       23 

because  I  was  doing  things  for  her  all  the  time, 
but  she  got  to  calling  me  'sponger'  and  'brat* 
and  'poor-house  trash,'  and  said  in  the  South 
they  would  call  me  'po'  kin.'  And  Daddy  got 
as  mad  as  fire  and  up  and  told  her  to  stop.  I 
would  have  gone  away  if  there  had  been  any 
place  to  go  to,  but  Mrs.  O'Shea  was  off  burying 
some  of  her  folks  and  I  just  had  to  stay,  so  I 
crawled  way  down  in  a  crack  back  under  the 
eaves  of  the  studio  and  I  stayed  there,  but  I 
could  hear  them  quarreling.  She  told  Daddy 
he  could  'choose  between  us,'  and  he  said, 
'Melodramatic  nonsense!'  And  she  told  him 
there  were  other  men  of  her  acquaintance  quite 
as  attractive  as  he  was.  He  said,  'No  doubt! 
You  are  quite  welcome  to  choose  between  us,  or 
rather  among  us.'  You  see  Daddy  was  mighty 
particular  about  his  English,"  said  the  child 
proudly.  She  rattled  on: 

!<  Then  he  persuaded  me  to  come  out  from  the 
crack  where  I  was  hiding,  and  smoothed  my  hair 
and  kissed  me,  and  made  me  wash  my  face,  and 
we  got  on  the  subway  and  went  out  to  see  where 
Edgar  Allan  Poe  lived  in  a  cunning  little  cot- 
tage, but  when  Poe  lived  there  it  was  country 
with  green  fields  and  a  little  stream  of  water. 
Xow  there  is  nothing  but  a  great  sewer  where 
the  stream  used  to  be,  and  all  the  fields  are 


24  The  Shorn  Lamb 

built  up  with  great  high  buildings  that  make  the 
cottage  look  like  a  doll-baby  house." 

"Yes,  I  have  been  there  often,"  put  in  Philip. 
"  I  had  the  honor  of  bumping  my  head  on  three 
different  lintels  in  the  Poe  cottage,  but  I  am 
too  tall  for  a  dell-baby  house." 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  know  the  place.  You  can 
understand  how  nice  it  was  to  go  there  and  get 
in  what  Daddy  called  *  another  atmosphere' 
after  Mamma  had  been  quarreling  so  loud. 
Daddy  told  me  all  about  Poe  and  recited  a  lot 
of  his  poetry,  and  told  me  when  I  got  a  little 
older  I  could  read  all  his  tales.  I  have  read 
them  all  now,  even  'The  Murders  in  the  Rue 
Morgue,'  but  I  had  fearful  dreams  after  it,  and 
thought  an  orang-outang  had  come  up  the 
Mygatts*  fire  escape  and  carried  off  Daddy. 

"Well,  then  we  started  home,  having  com- 
forted each  other  a  whole  lot  and  decided  we 
would  try  to  be  mighty  nice  to  poor  Mamma, 
who  didn't  mean  to  be  so  cross.  Daddy  got  a 
box  of  chocolates  for  her,  and  I  borrowed  some 
money  from  him  and  bought  a  bunch  of  violets 
from  a  man  on  the  corner.  They  were  not  quite 
fresh,  but  they  smelled  fine,  and  I  thought 
Mamma  would  not  notice  how  they  looked  she 
would  be  so  glad  we  were  home.  And  Daddy 
got  some  French  chops  for  dinner,  and  some 


A  Multiplicity  of  Parents       25 

eclairs,   and   we   planned   to   have    a   kind   of 
make-up  party. 

"  When  we  got  home  the  studio  was  dark  and 
I  felt  a  funny  creepy  feeling  down  my  back. 
I  was  kind  of  scared  and  held  on  tight  to 
Daddy's  hand.  When  we  lit  the  gas  we  didn't 
know  at  first  what  was  the  matter;  things  were 
in  such  a  mess.  But  when  we  got  used  to  the 
light  and  looked  around  a  hit  we  found  all  of 
Mamma's  pretty  dresses  were  gone,  and  her 
three  big  trunks  that  used  to  be  shoved  back  in 
one  of  the  largest  closets,  and  then  Daddy  saw  a 
letter  stuck  in  the  mirror,  and  when  he  read  it 
he  whistled  a  long  whistle  and  then  he  laughed 
a  kind  of  hard  laugh. 

'Well,  Beck  child,  Mamma  has  gone  and 
left  me  to  hold  the  bag.' 

"And  I  said,  'Am  I  the  bag,  Daddy?' 
"No,  honey,  let's  say  the  studio  is  the  bag 
and  you  are  the  strings  to  the  bag.' 

"Then  we  got  busy  and  had  dinner.  We 
put  the  violets  on  the  table  and  they  spried  up 
a  lot.  I  cooked  the  chops  and  we  had  the  eclairs 
for  dessert,  and  Daddy  opened  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne in  honor  of  the  occasion.  Altogether  the 
make-up  party  was  a  great  success.  The  next 
day  we  got  Mrs.  O'Shea  over  to  straighten  us 
up,  and  it  was  kind  of  like  a  funeral,  the  way 


26  The  Shorn  Lamb 

she  went  around,  only  there  wasn't  any  corpse. 

"Daddy  and  I  had  mighty  peaceful  times 
after  that.  He  taught  me,  so  I  didn't  have  to 
go  to  school,  and  Mrs.  O'Shea  looked  after  my 
manners  and  morals.  We  began  to  have  nice 
talky  parties  again.  Poor  Mamma  wouldn't 
have  talky  parties.  She  liked  the  kind  where 
people  danced  and  made  a  noise,  but  Daddy  and 
I  liked  the  talky  ones.  Painting  and  writing 
people  used  to  come,  and  nice  girls  who  petted 
me.  Mrs.  O'Shea  said  they  were  dangerous 
persons,  but  Mrs.  O'Shea  is  something  of  a 
'fraid  cat.  Such  happy  times!"  This  time  the 
handkerchief  had  to  be  used  in  good  earnest. 

"Isn't  it  funny  that  we  cry  over  good  times 
more  than  bad  ones?  Daddy  was  the  charm- 
ingest  person  that  ever  was.  He  had  a  great 
sense  of  responsibility,  too,  and  was  determined 
I  mustn't  forget  my  first  father  and  mother. 
He  had  known  them  very  well,  and  he  used  to 
tell  me  all  kinds  of  sweet  things  about  them.  Hn 
remembered  the  funny  stories  my  first  father 
told  about  the  colored  people  at  home  and  he 
used  to  tell  them  to  me.  Such  ridiculous  things 
about  a  dear  old  black  woman!  And  he  would 
sing  some  of  the  songs  too — '  Swing  Low,  Sweet 
Chariot'  and  'I'm  a  Rollin'  Through  an 
Onfriendly  World/  Daddy  said  he  wanted  me 


A  Multiplicity  of  Parents       27 

to  realize  I  was  a  Southern  lady  and  not  just 
studio  property. 

"He  felt  very  sad  that  I  didn't  know  any 
children,  but  there  weren't  very  many  children 
to  know,  because  Daddy's  friends  were  most  of 
them  so  busy  being  individualists  they  didn't 
stop  to  have  any  children.  They  had  theories 
about  children,  but  no  children.  We  planned 
to  go  to  live  in  the  country  some  day  and  have  a 
cat  and  a  dog,  and  maybe  a  cow,  but  the  day 
never  came  because  Daddy  began  to  get  sick. 
By  and  by  he  got  so  sick  he  couldn't  write  and 
he  used  to  dictate  to  me.  I  tell  you  it  was  hard 
work  to  cross  my  t's  and  dot  my  i's  and  keep  up 
with  Daddy  at  first,  but  after  a  while  he  got  so 
slow  I  could  do  it  easily.  I  would  take  the  copy 
over  to  one  of  the  nice  girls  who  came  to  our 
parties,  and  she  would  type  it  and  see  that  it  got 
to  the  Sunday  paper  on  Friday. 

"Then  Daddy  got  so  he  couldn't  dictate  and 
the  money  got  low,  but  he  felt  so  sick  he  didn*t 
know  anything  about  the  money  and  I  didn't 
tell  him.  I  began  to  pawn  things.  I  started  in 
on  the  Apostle  spoons.  My  first  father  had  a 
collection  of  them  and  I  felt  as  I  sold  them  that 
the  Saints  were  looking  after  us.  Then  my 
first  mother's  jewelry!  That  kept  us  a  long 
time.  I  hated  to  let  that  go  because  I  could 


The  Shorn  Lamb 

remember  the  way  she  loved  the  little  bangly 
things  that  tinkled  like  sweet  bells,  but  for 
Daddy's  sake  I  would  have  pawned  my  eyes 
and  gone  around  the  rest  of  my  life  being  led 
by  a  little  dog  on  a  string. 

"Then  I  started  in  on  the  dress  suits,  long- 
tailed  and  dinner  coats  too.  First  went  father's ! 
That  had  to  go  cheap  because  the  waiter  at  The 
Golden  Calf,  who  bought  it,  complained  that  it 
was  out  of  style,  with  the  tails  too  long  and  the 
trousers  a  bit  too  full.  Papa  had  three  dress 
suits  and  we  lived  a  long  time  on  them.  I  didn't 
sell  Daddy's  dress  suit  until  the  doctor  had  an 

v 

expression  on  his  face  that  made  me  know 
Daddy  would  never  want  it  again.  Daddy 
never  liked  it  much,  anyhow,  and  hated  to  dress 
up.  Mrs.  O'Shea  didn't  like  my  selling  it  at  all. 
I  knew  what  she  was  thinking  about,  but  I  pre- 
tended I  didn't.  I  was  determined  that  Daddy 
shouldn't  be  laid  to  rest  in  something  he  didn't 
like." 

The  child  paused,  looking  at  her  listener  with 
great  eyes  that  seemed  to  hold  the  woe  of  cen- 
turies. Philip  leaned  forward  and  took  one  of 
her  tiny  hands  in  his.  To  think  of  such  a  little 
girl's  having  gone  through  so  much  misery! 

"  It  is  funny  for  me  to  be  telling  you  all  this. 
I  can't  think  what  got  me  going  so.  I  am 


A  Multiplicity  of  Parents       29 

afraid  you  are  tired  to  death  and  won't  want  to 
keep  house  with  me  at  all." 

Philip  protested  at  this: 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  my  dear!  I  am  as  interested 
as  can  be  and  want  to  hear  all  of  your  story. 
Did  your  daddy  live  much  longer?" 

"No,  not  so  very  long,  but  long  enough  for 
me  to  have  to  sell  or  pawn  most  everything  in 
the  studio." 

"Why  didn't  your  friends  help  you?" 

"They  would  have,  but  I  didn't  let  them 
know.  Daddy  and  I  always  hated  to  be  helped. 
I  was  careful  not  to  get  rid  of  anything  that  he 
could  see.  He  didn't  know  about  it,  even  when 
I  rolled  up  rugs  and  dragged  them  off.  I 
didn't  sell  any  of  his  books.  Somehow  I  felt 
that  he  would  know  about  their  going  even  if  he 
couldn't  see.  It  was  a  good  thing  I  didn't 
because  just  the  very  day  he  died  he  asked  me 
to  read  to  him,  little  bits  from  various  books. 
Just  suppose  I  had  sold  those  very  books ! 
Wouldn't  it  have  been  awful?" 

Philip  agreed  that  it  would  have  been  sad 
indeed. 

"Mrs.  O'Shea  came  over  and  'tended  to  that 
funeral  too.  She  found  the  widow's  bonnet 
among  some  things  Mamma  forgot  to  take 
away  with  her  and  she  said1  it  would  be  'propri- 


30  The  Shorn  Lamb 

ate  for  me  to  wear  it  because  I  was  most  like  a 
widow  anyhow." 

"And  now  where  are  you  going?"  asked 
Philip. 

"To  a  grandfather  in  Virginia!" 

"And  why  hasn't  he  been  looking  after  you 
all  these  years?" 

"  I  don't  know.  You  see  I  just  found  out  I 
had  a  grandfather.  Mrs.  O'Shea  discovered  him 
when  we  cleared  out  the  studio.  There  were 
letters  to  my  first  father  from  my  grandfather. 
The  letters  were  all  quarreling  letters.  Some  of 
them  begged  him  to  come  home  and  be  a  manu- 
facturer of  hubs,  whatever  they  are,  and  one  of 
them  was  so  angry  because  Father  had  married 
Mother.  That  one  said  he  needn't  ever  come 
home  again  and  that  his  father  had  disowned 
him.  He  must  be  a  terrible  old  man  to  have 
written  such  letters.  I  feel  so  miserable  at  the 
thought  of  going  to  him,  but  Mrs.  O'Shea  would 
have  it  this  way  and  here  I  am  on  the  train  and 
going.  There  is  nothing  left  to  pawn  but  the 
books  and  I  couldn't  let  them  go,  and  I  don't 
know  how  to  earn  a  living  yet.  I  mean  to  some 
day,  though." 

"Has  your  grandfather  written  to  you?" 
asked  Philip. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  O'Shea  didn't  give  him  time.    She 


A  Multiplicity  of  Parents       31 

just  wrote  to  him  and  put  me  on  the  train.  I 
think  the  letter  will  get  to  him  a  day  or  so 
before  I  do,  as  she  put  a  special  delivery  stamp 
on  it.  Mrs.  O'Shea  is  a  mighty  managy  per- 
son and  she  acts  very  quickly  when  she  makes 
up  her  mind.  The  minute  she  found  the  bunch 
of  letters  to  Father  she  got  started  and  before 
I  knew  it  the  ticket  was  bought  and  I  was  here 
in  the  sleeper,  keeping  house  with  you." 


Chapter  2 
"I'M  REBECCA  TAYLOR" 

Philip  Boiling's  little  companion  paused  as 
the  entrance  of  the  train  conductor  put  a  stop 
for  the  time  being  to  the  conversation.  The 
child's  ticket  was  found  pinned  in  the  front  of 
her  blouse  after  a  nervous  search  through  bags 
and  boxes. 

"I  forgot  where  it  was  because  Mrs.  O'Shea 
told  me  so  many  times  where  she  had  put  it,'* 
she  laughed  as  the  conductor  punched  it  and 
put  it  in  his  pocket.  "  When  anybody  keeps  on 
saying  the  same  thing  over  and  over  it  is  hard 
to  remember  what  the  thing  is.  One  telling  is 
a  lot  easier  to  remember.  You  are  not  going  to 
forget  where  I'm  going  are  you  Mr.  Conductor? 
Somebody  will  have  to  tell  me  where  to  get  off." 

"That  will  "be  all  right,  little  lady.  I  see  this 
gentleman  has  a  ticket  to  the  same  place.  The 
porter  will  call  you  both  at  six  in  the  morning. 
That  will  give  you  time  enough  I  guess.  You 
have  upper  twelve." 

"I  shall  be  very  glad  to  let  the  young  lady 
have  my  lower  berth,"  put  in  Philip. 

32 


"I'm  Eebecca  Taylor"  33 

"Settle  that  between  you,"  smiled  the  blue- 
uniformed  one,  as  he  passed  on  to  the  next 
section. 

"  I  couldn't  think  of  letting  you  give  me  your 
berth,"  said  the  girl.  "Mrs.  O'Shea  says  the 
downstairs  ones  cost  more  than  the  upstairs 
ones,  which  is  quite  just,  where  there  is  no  ele- 
vator. I  don't  mind  a  bit  climbing  upstairs  now 
that  I  know  how  they  look."  She  had  been 
much  interested  in  watching  the  porter  making 
down  a  berth  at  the  other  end  of  the  car.  "In 
fact  I  believe  I'd  rather  mash  you  than  have 
you  mash  me,  if  you  don't  mind.  But  there's 
one  thing  that  worries  me." 

"And  that  is?" 

"I  don't  see  how  I  am  to  say  my  prayers. 
Mrs.  O'Shea  says  it  is  ill  bred  to  hump  up  in 
bed  and  pray  and  I  always  knelt  down  by  my 
bed  even  when  my  bed  was  a  divan  or  just  a 
quilt  on  the  floor,  the  way  it  was  when  Daddy 
was  so  sick  and  I  had  to  sell  all  the  furniture. 
I  don't  see  how  I  can  kneel  down  outside  an 
upper  berth,  do  you?" 

"No,  I  do  not,"  laughed  Philip,  "unless  you 
had  a  nice  fluffy  cloud  like  the  cherubs  in  the 
pictures.  Did  Mrs.  O'Shea  tell  you  what  to  do 
about  this  matter  of  kneeling?" 

"  I  think  not,  but  that  may  have  been  one  of 


34  The  Shorn  Lamb 

the  things  she  kept  on  telling  me  until  I  forgot." 

"Perhaps  you  would  consent  to  use  my  berth 
just  for  the  devotions,"  he  suggested. 

"Perhaps — but  don't  you  find  it  exciting 
that  we  are  going  to  the  same  town?" 

"Very  exciting!  Do  you  think  your  friends 
will  meet  you?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  they  are  not  my  friends 
yet.  Will  yours  meet  you?" 

"ISTo,  my  people  do  not  know  when  to  expect 
me." 

"Have  you  some  people  of  your  very  own  — 
mothers  and  fathers  and  sisters  and  brothers?" 
she  catechized  him. 

"Yes!" 

"How  lovely!    Don't  you  adore  them?" 

"Some  of  them!" 

"Oh,  I  should  just  adore  real  mothers  and 
fathers.  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  something 
about  yourself.  I  have  told  you  every  single 
thing  about  myself  from  the  very  beginning  and 
I  don't  know  a  thing  about  you,  not  even  your 
name." 

"Well,  my  name  is  Philip  Boiling  and  I  live 

on  a  farm  about  two  miles  from  O Court 

House,"  the  young  man  replied. 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Yes!" 


"I'm  Eebecca  Taylor"  35 

The  child's  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  she 
looked  out  of  the  window  into  the  growing 
darkness  of  the  spring  night  at  the  twinkling 
lights  of  a  village  through  which  they  were  roll- 
ing. Her  mouth  resumed  the  sad  droop  it  had 
shown  'before  the  heavy  bonnet  was  removed. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  her  companion  sympa- 
thetically. "What  is  the  matter,  my  dear?" 

"Nothing — but  —  don't  you  understand  how 
it  makes  me  feel — to  have  told  you  all  that 
long  tiresome  story  about  myself  and  then  for 
you  only  to  tell  me  your  name  and  where  you 
live,  like  a  city  directory?  I  feel  so  sad  that 
you  shouldn't  trust  me  at  all  when  I  trusted 
you  so  much.  I  don't  usually  tell  strangers  the 
story  of  my  life,  but  somehow  the  way  you 
looked  out  of  your  eyes  and  a  something  in  your 
voice  and  our  going  to  housekeeping  together 
and  all  made  me  spill  over.  I  am  very  sorry, 
sir!  I  realize  now  how  I  must  have  bored  you." 

"Oh,  but  you  didn't  at  all.  You  interested 
me  intensely.  I  do  trust  you,"  he  declared, 
smiling  in  her  eyes  until  she  smiled  into  his  and 
the  tears  went  back  to  whence  they  came.  "I 
will  tell  you  about  myself  if  you  want  to  know 
but  I  don't  know  where  to  begin." 

That  was  very  simple,  the  little  girl  thought. 

"At  the  beginning,  of  course,  the  way  I  did. 


36  The  Shorn  Lamb 

I  told  about  the  studio  and  my  first  father  and 
mother." 

"All  right  then,  but  when  the  porter  gets  to 
our  section  we  must  stop  talking  and  go  to  bed." 

"Begin!"  she  commanded,  her  eyes  shining 
in  anticipation.  "Tell  about  your  home  first 
and  then  your  mother  and  father  and  sisters  and 
brothers." 

"  My  home  is,  at  least  has  been,  beautiful.  I 
did  not  know  how  beautiful  until  I  left  it  and 
saw  other  places  similar  to  it  that  have  been 
kept  up.  My  father  doesn't  take  much  interest 
in  such  things  and  neither  did  my  grandfather 
before  him.  It  was  some  way-back  ancestor 
who  planned  it.  Some  day  I  hope  to  restore  it. 
The  place  is  called  The  Hedges,  because  it  has 
a  hedge  all  around  the  yard.  Then  there  is  a 
sunken  garden  with  another  hedge  around  it. 
That  sunken  garden  is  where  I  used  to  play 
when  I  was  a  little  chap;  and  my  mother  would 
sit  and  sew  and  read  and  watch  me  play.  There 
is  a  fountain  with  a  marble  boy  holding  up  a 
shell,  and  a  stone  basin  all  bordered  with  moss 
and  ferns.  The  beds  are  full  of  flowers  that 
come  up  year  after  year  and  grow  of  themselves. 
I  used  to  keep  them  weeded  but  since  I  have 
been  off  to  college  I  fancy  my  mother  and  sister 
have  looked  after  them.  There  is  a  sun-dial  too, 


37 

and  lovely  roses  and  box  bushes  that  are  as  big 
as  trees." 

"Oh,  I  know  you  must  love  it!" 

"  I  do,"  he  answered  simply.  "  I  think  I  love 
it  more  than  any  spot  on  earth.  I  have  not  seen 
it  for  four  years,  as  I  have  not  gone  home  for 
the  holidays.  Next  to  the  garden  I  love  the 
attic  at  home.  It  is  so  quiet  up  there  and  so 
peaceful.  My  mother  and  I  feel  the  same  way 
about  both  of  those  places.  My  mother  is  won- 
derful, and  I  have  a  sister  named  Betsy,  who  is 
a  darling  girl,  and  a  little  brother  named  Jo, 
who  was  a  fine  youngster  when  I  left  home  four 
years  ago.  He  must  be  a  great  big  toy  by  now, 
about  fourteen,  I  think." 

:*  You  love  your  mother  and  sister  and  brother 
a  whole  lot,  don't  you?" 

"I  do  indeed!" 

"Then  I  am  afraid,  'reasoning  by  elimina- 
tion,' as  Daddy  used  to  say,  that  your  father  is 
the  only  one  you  do  not  love.  You  needn't 
blush  so.  I'm  never  going  to  tell  anybody. 
You  said  in  the  beginning  that  you  didn't  adore 
all  of  your  people." 

"The  truth  is  my  father  and  I  have  never 
understood  each  other  very  well.  I  wanted  an 
education  and  he  didn't  see  the  use  of  one  and 
we  were  always  pulling  against  each  other 


38  The  Shorn  Lamb 

because  of  it.  My  mother  was  on  my  side  and 
we  won  out  but  after  a  long  hard  fight.  And 
now  that  I  have  my  degree  at  college  I  must  go 
back  and  work  on  the  farm  to  pay  for  it  all." 

"Do  you  mind  much?" 

"Well,  I  can't  say  I  am  hilarious  over  the 
prospect  but  I  do  want  to  see  my  mother  and  be 
some  help  to  her.  I  have  known  all  the  time 
the  day  of  reckoning  was  coming  and  now  that 
it  has  come  I  am  resigned.  The  farm  is  needing 
me  too.  My  father  is  apt  to  leave  things  very 
much  in  the  hands  of  the  colored  people  on  the 
place." 

"Do  you  like  colored  people?"  asked  the  girl. 
"I  have  known  so  few  of  them  myself  I  don't 
know  whether  I  like  them  or  not  but  Daddy 
said  I  must  try  to  like  them  because  my  own 
first  father  had  so  much  feeling  and  sympathy 
for  them." 

"I  like  the  good  ones  but  the  ones  on  our 
place  are  not  very  fine  specimens  of  the  race. 
There  is  an  old  Aunt  Peachy  who  is  evil  beyond 
belief.  She  has  always  lived  at  'The  Hedges' 
and  was  my  father's  nurse.  She  and  her 
descendants  are  a  bad  lot  but  it  is  out  of  the 
question  to  get  rid  of  them.  I  am  going  to  try 
to  reform  them.  There  is  a  dear  old  colored 
woman  who  lives  across  the  river  from  us.  She 


"I'm  Rebecca  Taylor"  39 

and  in  fact  all  of  the  colored  pe,ople  connected 
with  the  Mill  House  are  good.  This  old  woman 
is  bed-ridden — has  been  for  twenty  years  —  but 
she  is  more  cheerful  and  useful  than  most  per- 
sons who  are  able  to  be  up  and  about.  She  knits 
and  tats  day  and  night,  is  always  ready  to  give 
a  word  of  friendly  advice  to  white  and  black. 
Many  times  when  a  boy  I  have  stolen  over 
across  the  river  when  life  at  The  Hedges  was 
dark  and  dreary  and  my  old  friend  has  cheered 
me  up  and  I  have  gone  back  to  farm  work  feel- 
ing better  and  stronger.  Her  name  is  Aunt 
Pearly  Gates  and  one  of  her  peculiarities  is  she 
hatches  chickens  in  her  bed." 

"Oh,  oh!  She  is  the  one  my  father  used  to 
tell  about.  I  can  remember  now  all  about  it. 
She  used  to  comfort  him  when  he  was  young. 
Aunt  Pearly  Gates!  The  mere  name  kind  of 
stands  for  the  entrance  to  Heaven.  I  believe 
she  used  to  belong  to  my  grandfather  in  those 
far-off  slavery  times." 

"Why,  then  you  must  be  going  to  the  Mill 
House  and  your  grandfather  is  Major  Robert 
Taylor!" 

"Yes,  I'm  Rebecca  Taylor  and  my  father's 
name  was  Tom." 

"To  think  of  it!     I  used  to  see  vour  father 

•i 

when  I  was  sent  to  the  Mill  House  on  errands. 


40  The  Shorn  Lamb 

He  was  so  kind  to  me  and  always  had  a  pleasant 
word  and  a  joke.  I  was  nothing  but  a  little 
barefoot  boy  and  as  shy  as  a  rabbit  and  so 
afraid  of  Major  Taylor  I  used  to  pray  on  the 
way  that  the  old  gentleman  wouldn't  'be  at 
home.  He  usually  was  there,  however." 

"Was  my  grandfather  unkind?" 

"  No,  not  unkind,  but  he  had  a  caustic  wit,  a 
little  over  the  head  of  a  barefoot  boy.  He  used 
to  look  at  me  through  his  shaggy  eyebrows  and 
what  intelligence  I  had  seemed  to  leave  me.  I 
remember  when  your  father  left  home.  I  was  a 
very  small  chap  but  I  remember  it  well,  because 
after  that  being  sent  to  the  Mill  House  was 
more  of  a  torture  than  ever  before,  as  your 
father's  going  seemed  to  make  Major  Taylor's 
wit  sharper.  I  did  not  know  Mr.  Tom  Taylor 
had  a  child.  I  did  hear  he  had  married." 

"It  is  very  wonderful  for  you — my  first 
traveling  friend — to  have  known  my  father.  I 
wish,  somehow,  you  had  known  about  me  too. 
It  is  strange  my  grandfather  didn't  tell  his 
neighbors  about  me.  But  here  comes  the  porter 
to  break  up  our  housekeeping!  I  do  hope  I  am 
going  to  remember  to  do  all  the  things  Mrs. 
O'Shea  told  me  to  do  and  to  leave  undone  all 
the  things  she  told  me  not  to  do  about  sleeping 
cars.  I  can't  help  thinking  it  would  be  better  if 


"I'm  Rebecca  Taylor"  41 

the  porter  would  take  those  little  hammocks  that 
he  hangs  up  next  the  windows  and  that  it  would 
be  truly  cruel  to  put  babies  in  because  they 
would  always  be  bumping  against  the  wall,  and 
stretch  them  across  the  aisles  to  catch  the  people, 
who  must  be  always  falling  out  of  the  upper 
berths." 

With  which  sage  observation  Miss  Rebecca 
Taylor  proceeded  to  prepare  for  prayers  and 
bed. 


Chapter  3 
MILL  HOUSE  FOLKS 

The  Taylors  of  Taylor's  Mill  were  not  aristo- 
crats, according  to  the  Virginia  ideas  of  aris- 
tocracy. The  ladies  of  the  family  could  not 
have  joined  the  Society  of  Colonial  Dames 
because  of  any  distinction  an  original  Taylor 
may  have  won,  nor  could  they  have  aspired  to 
the  Daughters  of  the  American  Revolution 
through  paternal  lines,  unless  having  ground 
corn  for  George  Washington's  hoe-cakes  would 
have  made  them  eligible  to  that  patriotic  society. 

The  Taylors  prided  themselves  on  not  being 
aristocrats.  At  least  it  was  a  habit  of  the  men 
of  the  family  to  mention  it  rather  often  —  but  it 
was  a  well-known  fact  that  they  had  made  it 
a  rule  to  marry  aristocrats.  They  had  been 
doing  it  for  generations.  Enough  blood  of  the 
princely  Cavaliers  had  been  fused  into  the  Tay- 
lor stock  to  bring  its  average  up  to  aristocratic 
par;  but  the  present  head  of  the  family,  Major 
Robert  Taylor,  carried  on  the  Taylor  traditions 
by  insisting  he  was  not  an  aristocrat. 

"Just  millers!"  he  would  assert.  "Nothing 

42 


Mill  House  Folks  43 

but  millers  who  live  by  grinding  others'  corn." 
This  statement  the  ladies  of  the  family 
insisted  was  absurd.  To  be  sure  the  Taylors 
still  owned  the  mill  and  ground  other  persons' 
corn  as  well  as  their  own,  but  the  revenue 
obtained  from  the  little  old  mill  was  as  a  drop 
in  a  bucket  compared  to  the  money  made  by 
the  hub  factory,  across  the  little  river  from  the 
mill,  drowning  with  its  raucous  buzz  saws  the 
soft  purring  noise  made  'by  the  ancient  machin- 
ery which  was  still  run  by  the  splashing  mill- 
wheel,  just  as  it  had  been  in  George  Washing- 
ton's time. 

While  not  as  old  an  industry  as  the  mill,  the 
hub  factory  was  not  a  recent  Taylor  venture. 
It  had  been  in  existence  for  almost  a  hundred 
years.  An  astute  Taylor  had  not  been  content 
with  merely  grinding  the  corn  belonging  to 
other  persons  but  had  decided  that  the  great 
force  that  lay  in  the  little  river  could  furnish 
power  to  turn  lathes  as  well  as  millstones  and 
the  swift  current  could  also  bring  the  necessary 
logs  to  the  factory.  The  machinery  at  the  mill 
had  not  changed  writh  time  and  the  meal  was 
the  same  as  it  had  been  in  George  Washington's 
day,  coarsely  ground  with  the  taste  of  the  corn 
intact.  The  mill  had  been  handed  down  from 
father  to  son  and  each  generation  had  taken 


44 

pride  in  the  quality  of  the  meal  ground  at  Tay- 
lor's Mill.  But  the  hub  factory  was  down-to- 
date.  Major  Robert  Taylor  never  let  a  labor- 
saving  device  escape  him.  His  hubs  had  as  good 
a  reputation  as  his  corn  meal.  No  longer  did  they 
depend  upon  the  little  river  to  bring  logs  to  the 
factory  as  the  neighboring  forests  had  been 
denuded,  but  a  spur  of  the  main  railroad  came 
to  the  door  of  the  building  and  a  shuttle  engine 
puffed  back  and  forth  hauling  up  logs  and 
taking  off  the  finished  hubs. 

Major  Taylor  was  considered  a  just  man  to 
work  for,  although  a  bit  stern  and  uncompro- 
mising. He  had  a  sharp  tongue  that  made  him 
feared  by  his  employees,  although  there  were 
times  when  his  heart  had  been  discovered  to  be 
kind  enough.  The  colored  hands  liked  him 
better  than  the  white  ones. 

"Ol'  Marse  Bob,  he  done  made  me  feel  lak 
mo'  kinds  er  monkeys  than  ever  got  in  No's 
Awk,"  said  Silas  Johnson,  who  had  charge  of 
the  mill,  known  to  the  whole  county  as  "Brer 
Johnson."  "But  it  don't  make  no  min'  to  me. 
The  bigger  monkey  he  makes  er  me  the  mo'  he 
does  for  my  po*  oY  Pearly  Gates." 

"Ain't  it  the  truf?"  answered  his  companion 
and  assistant,  Buck  Jourdan. 

"It  looks  ter  me  lak  Marse  Bob  done  got 


Mill  House  Folks  45 

sharper  tongueded  arter  Marse  Tom  up  an'  lef 
home." 

"  Laws-a-mussy,  Brer  Johnson,  that  were  nigh 
on  fifteen  year  ago.  He  done  had  time  to  git 
over  his  spleen.  Sometimes  when  he  comes  in 
the  mill  he  talks  lak  his  gall  bladder  done  bus' 
in  his  mouf." 

"  He  got  wuss  an'  mo'  of  it  arter  Miss  Myra 
done  read  outen  a  Noo  York  paper  that  Young 
Marse  Tom  wa'  daid;  daid  an'  buried  in  Noo 
York  'thout  ever  sendin'  his  paw  a  line.  They 
do  say  Young  Marse  Tom  had  done  got  married 
ter  some  furren  lady  an'  Ol'  Marse  Bob  had 
done  'suited  Young  Tom  time  an'  agin  'bout 
his  wife,  an'  done  tol'  him  never  ter  darken  his 
do'  an'  never  ter  mention  his  wife's  name  ter 
him  an'  he  done  sint  back  Marse  Tom's  letters 
'thout  even  openin*  'em.  Th'ain't  no  wonder  his 
wife  didn't  sen'  her  paw-in-law  no  message  'bout 
her  husband  arter  all  them  comtumelies.  Mo' 
'n  lakly  the  po'  thing  didn't  know  nothin'  but 
Choctaw  or  some  kinder  furren  talk,  anyhow. 
Po'  lady!  I  reckon  she  griebed  a  lot  over  lil' 
Marse  Tom.  He  sho'  wa'  one  lakly  young 
man." 

"He  sho'  wa'!"  agreed  Buck.  "He  wa'  the 
mos'  lakly  er  all  Marse  Bob  an'  Miss  Evy's  chil- 
luns,  ter  my  min'.  Marse  Spot  air  so  glumified 


46  The  Shorn  Lamb 

an'  Miss  Evelyn  an'  Miss  Myra  air  so  proudi- 
fied.  Not  that  they  ain't  moughty  fine  folks," 
he  hastened  to  add,  observing  an  indignant 
gleam  in  the  eye  of  Silas  Johnson. 

Brother  Johnson  chuckled.  He  could  criti- 
cize his  white  folks  if  he  had  a  mind  to  but 
nobody  else  could  do  it  in  his  presence  and  go 
unscathed.  He  had  belonged  to  the  Taylors 
and  all  his  family  had  belonged  to  the  Tay- 
lors. Ever  since  Taylor's  Mill  had  been  grind- 
ing corn  there  had  been  a  Johnson  to  help  a 
Taylor.  Emancipation  of  the  negroes  had 
meant  little  to  him.  He  still  belonged  to  the 
Taylors  and  the  Taylors  belonged  to  him.  He 
and  his  old  wife,  Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  lived  in 
the  same  cabin  they  had  occupied  since  before 
the  war  and  he  had  charge  of  the  mill  just  as 
he  had  before  Virginia  passed  an  order  of  seces- 
sion on  that  day  in  April  in  '61.  In  the  old 
days  he  had  a  place  to  live,  clothes  to  wear  and 
plenty  of  food.  The  only  difference  was  that 
now  he  must  pay  for  the  food  and  clothes  with 
money  earned  by  serving  the  Taylors  instead  of 
just  service  to  the  Taylors. 

Brother  Johnson  held  the  same  contempt  for 
the  modern  hub  factory  that  his  father  before 
him  had  held. 

"Noisy,   highfalutin',   bumptious  place!"  he 


Mill  House  Folks  47 

would  mutter  when  the  great  buzz  saws  drowned 
the  splash  and  whirr  of  his  old  mill. 

On  the  mill  side  of  the  river  the  country 
remained  as  of  old.  Alders  and  rushes  bordered 
the  stream  and  the  corn  lands  met  them  in  an 
irregular,  friendly  line.  The  arched  stone 
bridge  that  spanned  the  river  immediately  above 
the  mill-dam  was  as  old  as  the  mill  and  it  too 
seemed  to  have  been  intended  by  Nature  to  be 
there,  so  perfectly  did  it  harmonize  with  its 
surroundings. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  river  the  hub  factory 
shrieked  its  down-to-dateness  with  shrill  whistles. 
It  flaunted  its  efficiency  in  every  line  of  its  red 
brick  ugliness.  Nature  would  none  of  it.  No 
alders  grew  on  the  factory  side  of  the  river  and 
a  barren  stretch  of  land  divided  the  factory  site 
from  the  pleasant  farm  lands  beyond.  On  that 
side  was  a  country  store  which  had  tried  to  keep 
up  with  the  factory  in  modern  methods  but, 
being  after  all  a  country  store,  had  lapsed  into 
its  original  state  long  ago. 

The  factory  hands,  white  and  colored,  lived  in 
cottages  and  cabins  dotted  through  the  county. 
Major  Taylor  paid  good  wages  and  had  no 
trouble  in  getting  labor.  In  busy  seasons  a  hun- 
dred men  were  employed  in  the  hub  factory ;  two 
men  and  a  boy  in  the  mill.  The  Taylors'  farm 


48  The  Shorn  Lamb 

was  in  an  arm  of  the  river  on  the  mill  side,  eight 
hundred  acres  as  fertile  as  there  was  in  a  fertile 
county.  The  land  rolled  gently  from  the  flat, 
rich  river  bottom,  changing  gradually  into  more 
decided  undulations.  In  the  distance  one  could 
see  the  foothills  of  the  Blue  Ridge  and  on  clear 
days  the  mountains,  blue  and  far  away. 

Mill  House  told,  more  loudly  than  any  Tay- 
lor, that  its  original  owner  had  not  been  of  the 
aristocracy.  Although  the  main  part  of  the 
building  had  been  erected  at  the  period  when 
colonial  architecture  flourished  in  Virginia,  no 
colonial  trace  was  left.  No  doubt  the  bricks  had 
been  brought  from  England  but  they  had  been 
put  into  place  by  a  matter-of-fact  person  who 
had  in  his  mind  merely  the  building  of  a  house 
with  four  walls,  with  holes  left  therein  for  win- 
dows and  doors.  The  ceilings  were  low  and  the 
woodwork  of  the  simplest,  with  none  of  the 
beautiful  moulding  which  characterized  most 
colonial  homes.  Each  succeeding  generation 
had  added  in  some  way  to  the  house  and  the 
effect  was  on  the  whole  pleasing.  Mill  House 
gave  one  an  idea  of  comfort  and  plenty.  Each 
lean-to  had  been  built,  if  without  architectural 
plan,  at  least  with  the  intention  of  making 
things  more  comfortable  for  the  inhabitants. 
Broad  porches  had  been  added  from  time  to 


Mill  House  Folks  49 

time  and  windows  opening  on  those  porches  had 
been  cut  down  and  made  into  glass  doors. 

Each  high-born  lady  who  had  married  into 
the  Taylor  family  had  brought  with  her  treas- 
ures from  her  home — a  set  of  Chippendale 
chairs,  a  Sheraton  sideboard,  a  claw-foot  table 
or  the  portrait  of  some  ancestor  in  high  stock  and 
powdered  cue.  So  it  was  that,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  the  present  head  of  the  Taylor  family, 
and  owner  of  Mill  House,  persisted  in  asserting 
himself  to  be  no  aristocrat,  he  was  the  possessor 
of  perhaps  as  fine  a  collection  of  antique  furni- 
ture as  could  be  found  in  Virginia. 

Major  Robert  Taylor  was  showing  more  than 
his  sixty-five  years  of  age.  His  hair,  which  had 
been  blond,  was  snow  white.  His  face  was  lined 
and  seamed  with  wrinkles;  his  shoulders  were 
stooped;  his  back  bent.  He  looked  like  a  man 
of  seventy-five  or  more.  However,  his  eyes 
were  as  blue  as  ever  they  had  been;  his  hearing 
was  even  keener;  his  tongue,  if  possible, 
sharper.  On  that  morning  in  June  he  sat  in  his 
library  waiting  for  the  mail  before  going  to  the 
hub  factory.  He  was  a  lonely  soul,  a  bookish 
man  who  had  nobody  with  whom  he  could  talk 
books.  His  son,  Spottswood,  and  his  daughters, 
Evelyn  and  Myra,  read  when  there  was  nothing 
else  to  do  and  their  type  of  reading  matter  was 


50  The  Shorn  Lamb 

not  the  kind  to  appeal  to  the  Major.  Spot  con- 
fined himself  to  the  daily  paper  and  an  occa- 
sional magazine  of  short  stories  or  a  farmers' 
quarterly.  Myra  kept  up  with  the  continued 
stories  in  two  or  three  magazines,  and  read  with 
interest  all  the  advertisements  and  articles  on 
the  subject  of  domestic  science,  although  she 
had  no  occasion  to  use  the  information  gained 
thereby,  since  the  queen  of  Mill  House  kitchen, 
Aunt  Testy,  brooked  no  interference  from  mem- 
bers of  the  household  as  to  her  domain.  Evelyn 
was  deeply  religious  and  read  only  books  of 
devotion  or  stories  about  missionaries  and  their 
travels  and  trials  in  foreign  lands. 

Young  Master  Tom,  who  had  gone  to  New 
York  to  be  an  artist,  had  liked  the  kind  of  books 
the  Major  liked.  He  had  been  a  reader  from 
the  time  he  was  a  little  lad  spelling  out  the  titles 
on  the  fine  old  calf  bindings.  Spottswood  was 
cut  out  for  a  farmer  and  the  eight  hundred 
acres  of  fertile  land  in  the  arm  of  the  little  river 
would  keep  him  busy  enough.  But  Tom  —  Tom 
might  have  done  wonders  with  the  hub  factory, 
thought  the  Major,  as  he  waited  for  the  mail  on 
this  June  morning.  It  would  have  grown  under 
his  clear-headed  management,  grown  into  a 
great  industry,  and  yet  there  would  have  been 
time  for  reading  at  home  in  the  evenings,  read- 


Mill  House  Folks  51 

ing  and  long,  intimate  talks  about  the  books. 
Tom  had  a  sense  of  humor  and  a  ready  wit  and 
could  come  back  with  clever  repartee.  But  these 
other  children — good  enough  in  their  way,  but 
with  no  idea  of  a  joke!  It  was  hardly  worth 
while  teasing  them,  they  took  life  so  seriously. 
Once  Tom  had  failed  to  see  through  his  fa- 
ther's grim  humor;  at  least  that  was  how  the  old 
man  chose  to  think  of  the  stand  he  had  taken 
when  Tom  wanted  to  go  to  Paris  and  study  art. 
It  was  merely  a  joke  when  he  sent  back  his  son's 
letters  unopened  after  the  news  came  that  Tom 
was  married.  Tom  should  have  known  it  was  a 
joke  and  sent  them  back  or  written  them  again 
—  done  something  besides  just  remain  silent. 
He  should  have  brought  his  wife  down  to  the 
Mill  House  and  let  his  people  see  her.  He 
might  have  known  his  father  would  have  come 
around.  How  could  he  have  been  so  dense?  Did 
he  expect  a  man  of  his  father's  age  and  temper 
to  be  the  one  to  eat  humble  pie?  Why  need 
he  have  chosen  a  foreigner  to  fall  in  love  with? 
Why  hadn't  he  married  a  girl  in  his  own  county 
and  settled  down  at  the  Mill  House?  There 
was  plenty  of  room  there  and  if  there  wasn't 
it  would  have  been  an  easy  matter  to  build 
another  L  to  the  old  house  as  his  fathers 
before  him  had  done. 


52  The  Shorn  Lamb 

Tom  might  have  had  a  family,  thought  the 
Major.  It  would  have  been  rather  pleasant  to 
have  some  grandchildren  to  whom  he  might  leave 
his  money.  Spot  seemed  to  have  no  idea  of 
marrying,  and  as  for  Evelyn  and  Myra — they 
were  old  maids  from  the  time  they  were  born! 
They  were  handsome  enough,  with  their  yellow 
hair  and  fair  skin  —  all  the  Taylors  were  fair  — 
but  suitors  were  slow  to  come  to  the  Mill  House 
or  the  ladies  were  too  particular.  Major  Taylor 
had  an  idea  that  neither  one  of  his  daughters 
had  ever  had  a  proposal  of  marriage.  He  freely 
bantered  them  because  of  their  lack  of  admirers. 
He  wondered  that  it  should  be  the  case.  Tay- 
lors had  always  married,  and  married  well.  It 
never  entered  his  mind  that  his  own  caustic  wit 
and  teasing  tongue  had  kept  possible  admirers 
away. 

"Mail  late,  as  usual!"  stormed  the  Major, 
standing  out  on  the  porch  where  his  daughters 
sat  at  opposite  sides,  as  far  apart  as  they  could 
get  from  one  another,  Myra  studying  the  intri- 
cacies of  a  fireless  cooker  advertised  in  the  back 
of  her  magazine  and  Evelyn  reading  a  religious 
paper. 

"Not  on  speaking  terms  again,  eh?"  he  ques- 
tioned, noticing  the  ladies  were  not  seated  in  a 
conversational  circle.  "Why  don't  you  girls 


Mill  House  Folks  53 

fight  it  out  and  not  go  around  peeved  and 
silent?  What  is  your  grouch,  anyhow?  Not 
speaking  to  me,  either?" 

Myra  cleared  her  throat  and  tried  to  answer, 
but  was  evidently  overcome  with  embarrass- 
ment. Evelyn's  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  she 
put  on  the  martyred  expression  which  always 
irritated  her  father  beyond  endurance. 

"It  is  nothing,  Father,"  Myra  finally  man- 
aged to  say.  "Evelyn  and  I  had  a  disagree- 
ment about  a  small  matter — " 

"1*11  be  bound  it  was  small!" 

"I  didn't  say  a  word  to  Myra — "  put  in 
Evelyn. 

"Of  course  not!  You  never  do  say  a  word, 
just  sulk.  Fancied  grievances!  Lack  of  occu- 
pation!" 

"I  am  sure  I  did  not  do  or  say  anything 
unladylike,  anything  Evelyn  could  have  taken 
exception  to,"  said  Myra  in  her  most  refined 
voice. 

Major  Taylor  laughed  ironically.  "Unlady- 
like! By  Gad!  I'd  like  to  see  one  of  you  do 
something  unladylike  —  something  that  showed 
you  had  some  red  Taylor  blood  in  your  veins 
and  not  just  the  over-refined  skimmed  blue  milk 
you  got  from  your  mother's  side  of  the  house. 
You  have  the  Taylor  color  to  your  hides  and 


54  The  Shorn  Lamb 

hair,  but  you  stop  right  there.  Red  Wood!  Red 
blood !  You  haven't  an  ounce  of  it." 

Since  the  Misses  Taylor  both  prided  them- 
selves on  the  very  thing  with  which  their  father 
was  twitting  them,  his  statement  did  something 
towards  restoring  their  good  humor.  A  silent 
truce  was  declared  by  a  mere  lifting  of  aristo- 
cratic eyebrows.  Their  disagreement  had  been 
over  a  trivial  cause;  indeed,  it  was  difficult  to 
remember  what  it  had  been. 

"The  postman  at  last!"  exclaimed  their 
father.  "Here!  You  imp  of  Satan !"  he  called 
to  the  crown  of  a  hat  and  end  of  a  hoe  he 
descried  at  the  top  of  the  high,  clipped  garden 
hedge.  "Come  here!" 

The  hat  promptly  disappeared,  but  the  end 
of  the  hoe  handle  still  protruded  above  the  gar^ 
den  hedge. 

"Don't  hide  from  me!  Come  here,  I  say,  you 
imp  of  Satan!  What's  that  little  devil's  name? 
So  many  darkeys  on  this  place  I  can't  remem- 
ber their  names." 

"That's  Willie  Bell,  I  think,"  said  Evelyn. 

Willie  Bell,  being  discovered,  came  forward 
from  behind  the  hedge  to  report  to  the  master 
of  whom  he  was  in  awe. 

*'Go  get  the  mail  from  that  fool  postman. 
Here,  take  these  letters  to  him  and  bring  back 


Mill  House  Folks  55 

the  ones  he  gives  you!  Don't  you  drop  a  one! 
Do  you  understand?" 

"No,  sah!    Wha'he?" 

"There  he  is,  idiot,  coming  down  the  road." 

The  mail  carrier  could  be  heard  long  before 
he  could  be  seen,  as  his  dilapidated  car  made 
more  noise  than  a  motorcycle.  He  was  in  sight 
now,  coming  along  the  red  clay  road  that  cut 
the  peaceful  green  of  the  rolling  meadow  lands, 
sharply  defining  the  contour  of  the  hills. 

Willie  Bell  hitched  up  his  trousers,  that  were 
sketchily  hung  on  his  meager  frame  by  means  of 
a  piece  of  twine,  and  timidly  took  the  packet  of 
letters  to  be  mailed.  Then  he  turned  and  ran 
like  a  rabbit  towards  the  yard  gate. 

The  Major  laughed.  "A  pretty  good  little 
nigger,  that!  Comes  of  good  stock — Johnson 
stock.  He  may  some  day  have  charge  of  the 
mill.  The  Johnsons  seem  to  be  keener  on  the 
perpetuation  of  the  species  than  we  Taylors." 

Evelyn  and  Myra  raised  their  eyebrows  again. 
They  wished  their  father  wouldn't  mention  such 
things.  They  also  devoutly  hoped  he  would  not 
start  in  on  the  fact  that  they  were  not  doing 
their  part  towards  keeping  the  race  of  Taylors 
going.  It  was  up  to  Spottswood,  anyhow,  but 
as  far  as  they  knew  Spot  had  no  idea  of  having 
another  lean-to  added  to  Mill  House.  Spot  was 


56  The  Shorn  Lamb 

a  quiet,  mirthless  person  who  attended  to  his 
farming.  He  seldom  mingled  in  the  society  of 
the  county  families.  His  sisters  bored  him 
intensely,  and  he,  in  turn,  irritated  them  by  his 
carelessness  in  dress  and  disregard  to  the  nice- 
ties of  life. 

As  they  sat  waiting  for  Willie  Bell  to  bring 
the  mail,  Spot  approached.  He  was  a  handsome 
young  giant  with  the  golden  Taylor  hair  and 
blue,  blue  eyes,  but  his  mouth  was  sullen  and  his 
expression  discontented. 

Above  all  things,  Spottswood  dreaded  being 
corrected  and  being  made  game  of.  His  sisters 
were  constantly  doing  the  first  and  his  father 
seldom  addressed  a  remark  to  him  that  the 
young  man  did  not  feel  had  a  latent  sting  of 
humor. 

"There's  a  scraper,  Spot,"  suggested  Myra, 
looking  meaningly  at  his  shoes  caked  with  clay 
and  pointing  to  the  old  iron  scraper  on  the 
lower  step  of  the  porch. 

Spot  said  nothing,  but  looked  even  more  sul- 
len and  sank  down  on  the  lowest  step. 

"We  have  just  been  discussing  the  propaga- 
tion of  the  species,"  said  Major  Taylor,  looking 
appreciatively  at  his  son's  manly  proportions, 
disclosed  to  good  advantage  in  a  loose  blue 
chambray  shirt  open  at  the  throat,  and  khaki 


Mill  House  Folks  57 

trousers.  "  I  was  saying  that  Silas  Johnson  and 
his  descendants  have  done  much  more  for  their 
country  than  we  Taylors.  By  Gad!  If  I  had 
a  grandchild  I'd  leave  it  everything  I  possess. 
I  don't  see  what  is  the  matter  with  the  bunch 
of  you.  Effete,  aristocratic  blood  has  been  dilut- 
ing our  good  miller's  stock  for  generations. 
Here  I  was,  the  only  child  of  my  parents.  To 
be  sure,  I  managed  better  than  my  immediate 
forbears,  but  what  good  did  it  do  to  have  four 
children  if  it  stops  right  there?  You  girls  are 
over  thirty,  and  Spot,  here,  is  twenty-four. 
What  is  the  matter  with  the  men  and  the 
maids?  Where  are  the  county  beaux  and  belles? 
Is  nobody  good  enough  for  the  likes  of  you,  or 
is  everybody  too  good?" 

Myra  and  Evelyn  looked  shocked  and  uncom- 
fortable during  this  tirade  and  Spot  became 
more  sullen.  He  wanted  to  marry,  meant  to 
many  some  day,  but  up  to  that  time  had  seen 
no  one  who  appealed  alike  to  him  and  to  his 
family.  When  his  father  died  he  intended  to 
suit  himself  in  a  wife,  and  she  would  not  be  any 
highfaluting,  prissy  person  whom  his  sisters 
would  choose,  but  some  farmer's  daughter  who 
would  not  be  forever  insisting  upon  his  mend- 
ing his  manners!  He  had  his  eye  on  just  such 
a  girl — little  Betsy  Boiling,  whose  home,  "The 


58  The  Shorn  Lamb 

Hedges,"  was  just  across  the  river.  She  was 
young  yet,  only  eighteen,  but  by  the  time  he 
was  ready  for  her  she  would  be  the  right  age. 
Spot  knew  very  well,  in  spite  of  the  Major's 
bluff  assertion  concerning  the  mistake  of  the 
Taylors  having  allied  themselves  with  the  aris- 
tocracy, that  he  would  not  accept  for  a  member 
of  his  family  one  whose  birth  was  not  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  family  traditions. 

The  Major's  observations  concerning  the  bar- 
renness of  his  offspring  were  cut  short  by  the 
return  of  Willie  Bell  with  the  mail.  The  little 
darkey  was  quite  weighed  down  with  the  maga- 
zines and  pamphlets  and  parcel  post  packages. 

"The  writ  letters  is  tied  up  on  the  imside  er 
that  there  maggotzine,"  he  said,  handing  all  the 
mail  to  his  master. 

"Here's  a  nickel  for  not  dropping  any,"  said 
the  Major.  "Be  sure  to  grow  up  and  marry 
and  have  a  big  family,  so  some  of  them  can  run 
the  mill  for  me  when  old  Uncle  Si  is  dead." 

"  Yessah !  Much  obleeged,  sah ! " 

The  boy  gave  a  hitch  to  his  twine  suspenders 
and  slipped  around  the  house,  glad  to  escape 
without  further  bantering. 

The  Major  sat  down  and  began  leisurely  sort- 
ing the  mail.  He  knew  perfectly  well  that  his 
daughters  were  eagerly  waiting  to  see  if  there 


Mill  House  Folks  59 

was  anything  for  them;  he  knew  that  Spot  had 
his  team  tied  to  the  side  fence  and  had  come  in 
from  the  fields  not  to  rest,  but  to  get  his  mail, 
but  nothing  would  hurry  him.  It  was  too 
delightful  to  tease  this  stolid  family  of  his. 

"Um  humm!  A  letter  for  Myra!  I'll  be 
bound  it  is  from  that  patent  dust-pan  agent. 
Perhaps  he  is  coming  a  courting.  A  magazine 
for  Evelyn  with  a  recipe  for  serving  up  mis- 
sionaries hot  and  tasty!  Another  letter  for 
Myra!  I  bet  it's  a  bill.  Here's  something  for 
Spot — not  from  a  lady,  Spot.  They  won't 
write  to  you  unless  you  write  to  them." 

As  he  turned  over  the  letters  he  came  upon 
one  for  himself  in  an  unknown  handwriting.  It 
was  written  in  violet  ink  on  salmon  pink  paper 
and  smelled  of  musk. 

"See!  The  ladies  write  to  me  whether  I  do 
to  them  or  not.  I  wonder  from  whom  this  is. 
Special  delivery  stamp,  too!" 

His  daughters  let  their  own  mail  lie  un- 
opened, so  interested  were  they  in  their  father's 
letter.  He  saw  their  excitement  and  deliberated 
wickedly  before  opening  it. 

"Postmarked  New  York!  I  wonder  who  can 
be  writing  me  from  New  York !  Sent  two  days 
ago!  What  do  I  tell  you  about  that  postman? 
He  is  simply  outrageous  about  keeping  mail 


60  The  Shorn  Lamb 

back.  I  should  have  got  this  yesterday.  I  am 
going  to  write  to  Washington  concerning  his 
delinquency." 

Major  Taylor  fingered  the  envelope  curiously, 
looking  slyly  at  his  daughters,  who  could  not 
conceal  their  interest  in  the  salmon  pink,  highly 
scented  letter.  Even  Spot  looked  up  from  his 
paper  with  some  show  of  curiosity.  The  old  man 
started  to  open  it  and  then  put  it  aside,  a  teas- 
ing smile  on  his  face.  He  picked  up  the  other 
mail  and  went  on  examining  it  leisurely. 

"I  fancy  that  letter  is  from  some  lady  who 
has  known  me  in  former  years.  How  would  you 
children  like  a  stepmother?" 

Myra  and  Evelyn  looked  shocked  and  uneasy 
and  Spottswood  opened  his  eyes  wide  in  aston- 
ishment. Could  their  father  be  joking?  It  was 
quite  possible  he  might  do  such  a  foolish  thing 
if  only  to  tease  his  family. 

The  Major  was  enjoying  himself. 

;'You  need  not  worry,"  he  laughed.  "I  am 
particular.  I  would  not  marry  anybody  who 
would  marry  me — certainly  not  a  lady  who 
wrote  on  such  vile-smelling  pink  paper." 

He  waited  until  his  family  settled  themselves 
to  their  various  mail  and  then  with  a  great 
rustling  and  rattling  began  opening  the  offen- 
sive letter.  They  were  all  attention  in  a  mo- 


Mill  House  Folks  61 

ment.  He  finally  drew  out  of  the  envelope  the 
folded  sheet. 

"What's  all  this?  I  must  be  seeing  wrong! 
I  know  my  glasses  need  changing.  Here,  Spot, 
read  this  to  me!  No,  you,  Myra,  you  do  it! 
Spot  mumbles  so." 

The  letter  was  addressed  to  Major  Robert 
Taylor  and  this  is  what  Myra  read : 

Dear  Sir:  I  take  my  pen  in  hand  to 
inform  you  that  your  granddaughter,  Re- 
becca Taylor,  is  now  left  alone  in  New 
York  without  money  and  with  nobody  of 
repute,  save  myself,  to  do  for  her.  I  am  a 
lone  widow  and  do  not  feel  that  I  can  take 
upon  myself  the  care  of  a  young  girl. 

In  looking  over  the  letters  and  papers 
found  in  a  trunk  which  belonged  to  the 
child's  father  I  discovered  your  existence. 
In  case  you  are  dead  I  gathered  from  said 
letters  that  there  are  others  of  your  name 
whose  duty  it  will  be  to  care  for  Rebecca. 

Rebecca  is  a  good  child,  although  she  has 
had  no  attention  paid  to  her  manners 
except  by  your  humble  servant.  I  have 
tried  to  make  her  behave  ladylike.  She  is 
leaving  New  York  to-morrow  night  and 
will  arrive  at  O Court  House  Thurs- 
day morning. 

No  more  from  yours  at  present. 

LILBURN  O'SHEA. 


62  The  Shorn  Lamb 

As  Myra  finished  reading  there  was  perfect 
silence  on  the  porch. 

Finally  Evelyn  said :  "  Of  course  this  is  some 
impostor!" 

"Of  course!"  assented  Myra. 

"It's  the  biggest  hoax  I  ever  heard  of,"  put 
in  Spottswood. 

"What  day  is  this?"  asked  Major  Taylor. 

"This  is  Thursday?"  answered  Myra. 

The  Major  reflected  for  a  moment. 

"  Well,  whoever  this  Rebecca  is,  she  must  have 
arrived  at  the  Court  House  long  before  this. 
There  will  be  no  one  to  meet  her,  so  perhaps 
she  will  get  on  the  train  and  go  back  to  New 
York.  I  must  say  I  would  like  to  have  a  look 
at  the  person." 

Major  Taylor  was  endeavoring  to  appear 
calm  and  indifferent,  but  his  hand  was  trem- 
bling as  he  reached  out  for  Mrs.  O'Shea's  letter. 
Could  Tom  have  had  a  child  after  all?  Of 
course  not?  It  was  some  scheme  of  the  O'Shea 
person  to  get  money  from  him.  Funny,  though, 
that  she  had  not  mentioned  money  at  all.  That 
would  come  later  on.  Suppose  it  turned  out  to 
be  Tom's  daughter!  Things  went  dim  before 
the  old  man's  eyes  for  a  moment.  It  couldn't 
be  possible.  Tom  would  have  told  him  if  he 
had  had  a  child.  Perhaps  he  had!  Perhaps 


Mill  House  Folks  63 

the  news  had  been  in  one  of  those  letters  he  had 
returned  unopened! 

"  My  God ! "  he  gasped.  "  What  a  fool  I  have 
been!" 

His  daughters  usually  made  a  pretext  of 
agreeing  with  him  to  keep  the  barbed  arrows  of 
his  wit  from  being  sent  their  way,  but  when  the 
arbitrary  old  man  declared  himself  a  fool  they 
felt  perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  combat  his 
statement. 

"Not  at  all,  Father!"  they  chorused. 

"A  fool,  I  say!  All  kinds  of  a  fool!  Don't 
contradict  me!  I  know  a  fool  when  I  see  one. 
Get  the  bay  mare  hitched  to  my  buggy.  I'll  go 
to  meet  this  person  myself.  Hurry!  Hurry!" 

"  There's  someone  coming  down  the  road  now, 
Father,"  said  Evelyn.  "Look!  There  are  two 
persons  —  one  a  man  and  the  other  either  a  child 
or  an  old  woman.  Can  you  see  them?" 

"Certainly!  My  eyesight  is  as  good  as  yours. 
Never  mind  my  "buggy  yet  a  while,  Spot.  I'll 
await  our  guests  here  on  the  porch." 


Chapter  4 
REBECCA  ASKS  REFERENCES 

From  the  porch  at  Mill  House  the  Taylors 
watched  the  two  figures,  one  a  man,  the  other 
either  a  child  or  a  little  old  woman,  as  they 
made  their  way  along  the  winding  red  road.  At 
times  they  disappeared  as  the  road  dipped 
below  a  hill  and  then  they  would  come  to  view 
again,  after  each  disappearance  looming  up  a 
little  larger  and  more  distinct  to  the  watchers 
on  the  porch. 

"The  man  is  young,"  whispered  Evelyn  to 
Myra,  "and  he  is  dressed  like  a  gentleman.  I 
am  sure  he  is  not  a  peddler." 

"A  suitor,  perhaps!"  suggested  her  father, 
ironically.  The  old  man  was  numb  with  a  kind 
of  intense  excitement,  but  he  could  still  find  his 
tongue  and  use  it  to  the  undoing  of  his 
daughters. 

'  The  person  with  him  is  an  old  woman.  Look 
at  her  mourning  veil!  It  hangs  way  down  over 
her  shoulders,"  commented  Myra.  "They  say 
it  is  bad  form  to  wear  such  deep  mourning  now- 
adays, even  for  widows ! " 

64 


Rebecca  Asks  References        65 

"Perhaps  this  person  is  doubly  widowed," 
said  Evelyn. 

"Look,  her  dresses  are  short,  almost  to  her 
knees ! "  Myra  exclaimed  as  the  two  figures  stood 
for  a  moment  at  the  summit  of  the  last  little  hill 
before  reaching  the  yard  gate. 

"Quite  shocking!"  cried  Evelyn. 

Spot  had  made  no  comments  as  he  watched 
with  his  family.  His  wits  were  slow,  but  he 
realized  that  something  was  by  the  way  of  hap- 
pening at  Mill  House,  something  that  was 
going  to  have  a  bearing  on  the  fortunes  of  the 
family. 

As  Philip  Boiling  and  his  little  companion 
approached  Mill  House,  after  entering  the  yard 
gate,  Major  Taylor,  his  son  and  two  daughters 
arose  from  their  seats  and  stood  in  frozen 
silence.  They  might  have  been  posing  for  a 
photograph  of  a  family  group  on  the  front 
porch,  so  stiff  and  ill  at  ease  did  they  appear* 
Spottswood,  who  had  been  seated  on  the  low 
step,  was  in  the  foreground  in  the  sun,  the  others 
back  in  the  shadow  of  the  porch. 

The  fact  that  the  little  old  woman  had  turned 
out  to  be  a  child  did  not  make  them  burst  into 
laughter  as  it  had  Philip  on  the  night  before  in 
the  sleeper.  Nobody  felt  like  laughing.  Even 
Major  Taylor's  grim  humor  failed  to  assert 


66  The  Shorn  Lamb 

itself.  All  of  them  gazed  at  the  child,  whose 
many  parcels  began  slipping  from  her  arms  as 
she  stood,  her  great  brown  eyes  glued  to  Spotts- 
wood,  whose  yellow  hair  was  shining  in  the  sun. 

"Father!  Father!"  she  cried.  "I  — I- 
didn't  know!"  She  started  towards  him  and 
then  stopped.  "  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I 
thought — just  for  a  moment  —  you  seemed  to 
be  my  father.  You  see  the  last  time  I  remem- 
ber him  he  was  in  a  blue  painting  smock  with 
the  light  from  the  skylight  in  the  studio  turning 
his  hair  to  gold.  I  see  now  I  was  mistaken." 

Spottswood  looked  at  her  in  sullen  silence. 
Her  mourning  bonnet  had  slipped  to  the  back 
of  her  neck.  Her  black  hair  was  in  great  dis- 
order, as  the  child  had  never  before  tried  to 
comb  and  brush  it,  that  being  Mrs.  O' Shea's 
duty.  She  presented  a  strange  appearance  to 
her  kinspeople  as  she  stood  before  them.  She 
looked  from  one  to  the  other,  shrewdly  taking 
in  the  hostile  attitude  of  her  aunts,  whose  rela- 
tionship to  herself  she  partly  divined,  and  then 
she  fixed  her  attention  on  her  grandfather. 
She  fancied  she  saw  encouragement  in  his 
expression. 

Major  Taylor's  heart  was  behaving  strangely. 
It  was  beating  like  a  trip  hammer  and  there 
was  something  in  his  throat  that  bade  fair  to 


Rebecca  Asks  References        67 

turn  into  a  sob  unless  he  could  swallow  it. 
Could  this  little  elfin  creature  belong  to  him? 
She  certainly  did  not  in  the  least  resemble  any 
Taylor  that  he  had  ever  seen.  The  Taylors  were 
a  stalwart  race  and  as  blond  as  blond  could  be. 
There  had  never  been  a  dark-eyed  one  in  the 
family  that  he  had  known  of,  although  he  had 
heard  his  father  say  his  grandmother  had  been  a 
brunette. 

The  Major  looked  quizzically  from  the  child 
to  her  companion,  who  stood  hat  in  hand,  ap- 
parently considering  the  business  in  hand  to  be 
none  of  his  affair.  Although  his  father's  farm 
was  just  across  the  river  from  Mill  House, 
Philip  Boiling's  acquaintance  with  his  neighbors 
had  been  of  the  slightest.  As  a  boy  he  had 
occasionally  been  sent  to  Mill  House  on  an 
errand,  but  he  had  not  been  there  for  years,  and 
he  realized  that  he  was  not  recognized  by  any 
of  them.  Little  Rebecca  had  awakened  his 
deepest  sympathies  and  he  was  determined  to  see 
her  through  her  difficulties — even  to  take  her 
home  with  him  if  her  own  family  would  have 
none  of  her,  but  he  felt  it  wisest  to  play  the 
role  of  casual  bystander  until  the  Taylors  de- 
clared themselves.  Although  his  acquaintance 
with  them  was  slight,  he  was  well  aware  of  the 
peculiarities  of  the  Mill  House  folks.  Every- 


68  The  Shorn  Lamb 

body  in  the  country  knew  of  the  grim,  caustic 
wit  of  the  old  man  and  the  pride  of  the  daugh- 
ters of  the  house  and  the  stolid  slowness  of 
S  potts  wood.  The  Taylors  were  important  per- 
sons, and  no  matter  how  much  they  might  hold 
themselves  aloof  from  their  neighbors,  their 
neighbors  always  managed  to  know  much  more 
about  them  and  their  affairs  than  they  relished 
having  known. 

Philip  remembered  as  a  boy  how  he  had  hated 
to  go  to  Mill  House  with  a  message,  how  the 
master  had  always  made  him  feel  small  and 
uncomfortable,  addressing  him  with  a  pretense 
of  politeness,  but  plainly  letting  him  under- 
stand his  inferiority.  The  Taylors'  conviction 
of  their  own  superiority  did  not  at  all  worry 
Philip  Boiling,  the  man.  If  he  had  not  felt  so 
sorry  for  his  little  traveling  companion  he  would 
have  been  amused  by  the  present  situation,  but 
concern  for  her  was  uppermost  in  his  mind  just 
now. 

"To  what  fortunate  circumstance  do  we  owe 
this  visit?"  asked  Major  Taylor,  who  had  man- 
aged to  swallow  the  sob  and  assume  his  usual 
sarcastic  manner.  "Won't  you  be  seated?" 

"No,  I  thank  you,"  answered  Philip,  quietly. 
He  had  none  of  the  feeling  of  the  little  barefoot 
boy  with  a  message  from  his  father  about  the 


Rebecca  Asks  References        69 

harvesting.  "  I  am  Philip  Boiling,  the  son  of 
Rolfe  Boiling— " 

" The  devil  you  are!" 

"  I  met  this  young  lady  on  the  train  and  since 
she  was  traveling  alone  and  nobody  met  her  at 
the  Court  House  I  have  given  myself  the  pleas- 
ure of  bringing  her  safely  to  her  destination. 
We  came  over  from  the  Court  House  on  the 
shuttle  engine  to  the  hub  factory  and  walked 
from  the  mill.  The  rest  of  your  granddaugh- 
ter's baggage  is  at  the  mill,  left  in  care  of  Silas 
Johnson." 

"Whose  granddaughter?  What  granddaugh- 
ter? How  am  I  to  know  this  is  my  grand- 
daughter? How  am  I  to  know  you  are  the  son 
of  Rolfe  Boiling?" 

"That's  as  you  choose,  sir,"  answered  Philip, 
respectfully,  but  with  an  indifference  that  made 
the  old  man  open  his  eyes. 

"And  I  choose  to  ask  you  what  business  you 
have  bringing  to  my  house  a  young  person  who 
claims  to  be  my  granddaughter  when  I  know 
nothing  about  her  and  —  " 

"Exactly!"  put  in  the  Misses  Taylor,  glad  of 
the  cue  from  their  father. 

Spottswood  merely  gave  a  noncommittal 
"Humph!" 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  but  you  are  mistaken  in 


70  The  Shorn  Lamb 

blaming  this  kind  young  gentleman  for  my 
appearance,"  cried  Rebecca,  running  past 
Spottswood  up  the  steps  and  looking  Major 
Taylor  squarely  in  the  eye  and  all  but  shaking 
her  fist  in  his  face.  "  I  never  saw  him  until  last 
night,  when  I  went  to  housekeeping  with  him  on 
the  sleeping  car.  He  was  good  to  me  when  I 
was  lonesome,  having  just  lost  my  last  step- 
father and  no  one  left  in  the  studio.  He  gave 
me  his  lower  berth,  too,  not  that  I  wanted  it  at 
all,  except  that  it  was  kind  of  difficult  to  kneel 
down  outside  of  an  upper  berth  to  say  one's 
prayers,  and  Mrs.  O'Shea  has  told  me  time  and 
again  it  is  not  ladylike  to  hump  up  in  bed  and 
pray,  and  I  saw  no  other  way  to  do  it.  Thanks 
to  Mr.  Boiling,  I  was  able  to  kneel  quite  de- 
voutly in  the  aisle.  I  might  just  as  well  have 
saved  my  breath,  as  I  was  praying  that  whatever 
kinspeople  I  had  left  in  Virginia  would  be  glad 
to  have  me  come  and  live  with  them." 

Here  Rebecca  paused  for  breath  and  stood 
up  very  straight,  her  dark  eyes  flashing  their 
scorn  of  whatever  kinspeople  she  might  have. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  are  my  grand- 
father or  not,  and  what's  more,  I  don't  care.  In 
New  York  there  is  a  home  for  stray  cats  and 
dogs  and  before  they  let  anybody  take  one  of 
them  away  to  give  it  a  home  that  person  has  to 


Rebecca  Asks  References        71 

give  references  and  prove  that  he  is  a  good  per- 
son to  cats  or  dogs  and  will  be  kind  to  it.  Any- 
body that  gives  me  a  home  has  got  to  give 
references." 

Major  Taylor  burst  out  laughing.  His 
daughters  looked  shocked  and  Spottswood  lis- 
tened in  amazement  to  the  baiting  his  father  was 
getting  from  this  little  waif. 

Philip  Boiling  smiled.  He  remembered  what 
the  little  girl  had  told  him  of  the  rules  her 
Daddy  had  made  her  obey,  one  of  them  not  to 
sass  old  folks  until  they  first  sassed  her. 

The  little  girl  smiled,  a  bit  uncertainly. 

"It  is  funny,  isn't  it?"  Now  Rebecca  laughed, 
too.  "The  joke's  on  me.  I  can  see  it.  My 
Daddy,  that  is  my  last  stepfather,  used  to  tell 
me  if  you  could  see  that  the  joke  was  on  you 
and  laugh  at  it,  before  long  you  could  turn  it 
on  the  other  fellow.  I'll  tell  you  good-bye,"  and 
she  gave  a  sweeping  bow,  taking  in  all  the  group 
on  the  porch. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Major 
Taylor. 

"I  am  not  sure  what  my  movements  will  be 
for  the  next  few  days,"  she  answered  with  a 
primness  copied  from  Mrs.  O'Shea,  "but  for 
the  time  being  I  am  going  to  find  Aunt  Pearl}'' 
Gates'  house,  as  I  am  anxious  to  see  whether 


72  The  Shorn  Lamb 

she  still  hatches  chickens  in  her  bed,  the  way  my 
first  father  used  to  tell  me  she  did." 

A  change  came  into  the  old  man's  face.  All 
of  the  hard  lines  softened  and  into  his  keen  blue 
eyes  there  crept  an  expression  of  infinite  long- 
ing. Up  to  that  moment  he  had  been  almost 
sure  the  strange  little  gypsy-like  child  was  none 
of  his  blood.  No  Taylor  could  be  so  dark-eyed 
and  different  looking  from  all  other  Taylors. 
When  she  had  laughed  and  declared  the  joke 
was  on  her,  he  had  seen  something  that  in  a  way 
had  reminded  him  of  his  boy  Tom,  but  then  he 
argued  that  he  had  been  looking  for  traces  of 
his  boy  and  it  would  be  easy  to  fool  him. 

As  for  Rebecca's  thinking  Spot  was  her 
father,  that  was  too  stagy  to  be  impromptu. 
But  this  remark  about  Aunt  Pearly  Gates  and 
her  hatching  chickens  in  her  bed — the  convic- 
tion of  the  girl's  'being  of  his  own  flesh  and  blood 
came  to  him  like  a  flash.  How  could  he  ever 
have  doubted  it?  What  was  mere  color  of  hair 
and  eyes?  Even  shapes  of  noses  and  mouths 
didn't  count  for  much  in  heredity  compared  to  a 
certain  spirit  that  it  was  possible  to  hand  down. 

That  was  his  boy  Tom  who  had  been  speak- 
ing, his  Tom  who  had  so  boldly  stood  up  for  the 
young  Boiling  chap  who  had  befriended  the 
little  waif  on  the  journey,  his  Tom  who  had 


Rebecca  Asks  References        73 

demanded  a  reference  instead  of  giving  one.  By 
Gad!  He  was  to  prove  himself  her  grandfather 
instead  of  having  her  prove  herself  his  grand- 
daughter! He  laughed  aloud  in  his  glee.  He 
laughed  and  held  out  his  hands  to  her. 

Not  seeing  the  change  in  the  old  man's  face 
or  his  outstretched  hands,  Rebecca  had  turned 
and  started  down  the  steps.  She  held  her  head 
high  and  on  her  face  was  a  look  of  determina- 
tion not  to  show  her  feelings  to  those  persons 
on  the  porch.  She  gave  Philip  Boiling  a  little 
wan  smile  and  stooped  to  pick  up  the  parcels 
that  had  slipped  from  her  arms  when  she  first 
saw  Spottswood.  As  she  stooped,  a  great  wave 
of  physical  weakness  came  over  her  and  she 
crumpled  up  in  a  little,  bedraggled  black  heap. 

"Now  I  am  dying!"  was  the  thought  that 
came  to  her  as  she  fainted,  "'but  Mrs.  O'Shea 
won't  be  here  to  attend  to  this  funeral." 


Chapter  5 
AUNT  TESTY  TAKES  CHARGE 

"It's  because  she  hasn't  eaten  any  break- 
fast," said  Philip,  leaning  over  and  picking  up 
the  little  creature  who  seemed  no  bigger  than 
a  stray  kitten.  "  I  got  breakfast  for  her  at  the 
Court  House,  but  she  was  too  excited  to  eat." 

"No  breakfast!  May  the  Lord  have  mercy 
on  my  soul!"  cried  Major  Taylor.  "Here, 
Myra;  you,  Evelyn,  don't  stand  there  like  two 
pop-eyed  fools  I  Go  have  Testy  make  waffles. 
Cook  some  roe-herring  and  broil  a  squab.  Didn't 
you  hear  this  young  man  say  my  granddaugh- 
ter is  hungry?  She  has  eaten  no  breakfast! 
Go  telephone  for  the  doctor,  Spot!  I  never  saw 
such  a  dumb  lot  of  fools  in  my  life.  Here  Mr. 
Boiling,  bring  my  granddaughter  into  the 
chamber." 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  take  her  to  the  room 
over  the  back  parlor,  Father?"  suggested  Myra. 
who  had  a  certain  respect  for  "the  chamber,"  it 
being  the  room  in  which  her  father  spent  much 
of  his  time.  In  many  of  the  old  homes  in  the 
South  there  is  a  bedroom  on  the  first  floor  where 

74 


Aunt  Testy  Takes  Charge       75 

the  mother  and  father  sleep  and  which  is  always 
known  as  "the  chamber." 

"Room  over  the  back  parlor!  What?  That 
hot  hole,  when  she  is  ill  and  starving?  No, 
missy,  I'll  put  my  granddaughter  where  I 
please  and  that  will  be  the  chamber.  You  go 
tell  Testy  to  cook  up  a  big  breakfast  and  see 
that  it  is  here  in  a  minute,"  and  the  Major  led 
the  way  to  his  sanctum. 

"If  you  won't  consider  it  an  interference,  I 
will  suggest  that  you  merely  bring  the  child 
some  bread  and  milk,"  said  Philip,  smiling  in 
spite  of  himself  at  the  picture  of  cooking  waf- 
fles and  broiling  squabs,  which  no  doubt  were 
still  in  the  pigeon-house,  and  getting  it  all  done 
in  a  minute  for  a  poor  little  girl  who  had  fainted 
from  exhaustion  and  lack  of  nourishment,  com- 
bined with  the  excitement  of  being  scorned  and 
ignored  by  her  kinsmen. 

She  lay  quite  limp  in  his  arms.  He  placed 
her  on  the  bed  in  the  chamber,  taking  the  bat- 
tered bonnet  from  her  neck  and  drawing  off  the 
dusty  little  shoes. 

Myra  and  Evelyn  had  hastened  to  do  their 
father's  bidding  and  Spot  could  be  heard  in  the 
hall  at  the  telephone  giving  the  doctor's  ring — 
two  long  and  a  short. 

"What  must  we  do?     What  must  we   do? 


76  The  Shorn  Lamb 

Speak,  young  man!  Is  she  going  to  die?  Why 
don't  they  bring  that  bread  and  milk?  I  never 
saw  a  little  child  faint  like  this.  I  believe  she 
is  already  dead  and  it  is  I  who  have  killed  her. 
Oh,  what  an  old  fool  I  am!" 

Considering  Robert  Taylor  had  spent  sixty- 
five  years  in  perfect  conviction  that  he  was  very 
wise  and  always  right,  it  was  a  strange  thing 
that  in  one  morning  he  had  twice  acknowledged 
himself  to  be  a  fool. 

"She  is  not  going  to  die,  I  am  sure,"  con- 
soled Philip.  "There,  now  she  is  opening  her 
eyes!" 

Open  them  she  did  for  a  moment,  but  the 
lashes  seemed  too  heavy  for  the  weary  lids  and 
again  they  rested  on  the  pale  cheeks.  A  sigh 
escaped  from  the  cold  lips.  It  was  hard  to 
have  to  come  back  to  consciousness  and  not  be 
dead,  after  all.  But  what  was  that  good  smell? 
She  sniffed  daintily. 

"  Wha'  'bouts  air  the  po'  critter?"  asked  Aunt 
Testy  as  she  came  waddling  in,  carrying  a  small 
tray. 

"Well,  bless  Bob,  if  she  ain't  a  layin'  up  in 
ol*  Marster's  baid!  Here,  honey  baby,  here's  a 
lil*  bite  er  sumpin'  fer  yer.  What  all  this  I 
hearn  'bout  you  ain't  et  no  brekfus?  I  done 
briled  a  bit  er  bacin,  sliced  as  thin  as  thin,  an'  I 


Aunt  Testy  Takes  Charge       77 

jes'  that  minute  done  tuck  a  pone  er  bisit  bread 
out  er  the  oben.  It  air  the  kinder  bread  Marse 
Tom  useter  call  dog  bread,  an'  he  fairly  doted 
on  it.  It  air  jes  lak  the  bisit  cep'n  it  ain't  cut 
out  —  an'  sometimes  when  the  folks  is  all  through 
the  dogs  gits  it." 

Rebecca  opened  her  eyes  again  and  her  deli- 
cate nostrils  quivered  perceptibly.  Philip  Boll- 
ing  whispered  something  to  Major  Taylor  and 
the  two  men  tip-toed  into  the  hall,  leaving  the 
door  open. 

"  See  her  pretty  nose  a  wuckin' !  That  air  the 
odium  er  the  bacin.  I  allus  'lows  the  smell  er 
briled  bacin  will  raise  the  daid.  Open  yo'  mouf, 
honey  chile,  an'  let  Testy  put  a  sup  er  nice  milk 
in  it." 

Rebecca  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  a  moment 
and  looked  eagerly  in  the  good-natured,  fat  face 
of  Aunt  Testy. 

"  Are  you  Aunt  Old  Testament  or  Aunt  New 
Testament?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"I'm  New  Testymunt.  My  maw  befo'  me 
wa'  Ol'  Testymunt,"  answered  Aunt  Testy, 
amazement  depicted  on  her  moonlike  counte- 
nance. "What  you  know  'bout  Ol'  Testy  an' 
New  Testy,  honey  chil'?" 

While  she  talked  the  old  woman  slipped  a  sup 
of  milk  in  the  child's  mouth. 


78  The  Shorn  Lamb 

"My  father  used  to  tell  about  you,"  whis- 
pered Rebecca.  "You  and  Aunt  Pearly  Gates. 
Gee,  but  this  milk  is  good!" 

"Yo'paw?" 

"Yes,  I  guess  he  was  the  Marse  Tom  you 
spoke  of,  but  we  mustn't  talk  about  that.  No- 
body believes  me  and  I  am  going  away  back  to 
New  York.  I'm  very  sorry  I  threw  that  fit.  I 
guess  it  was  a  fit,  and  I  wasn't  dying  after  all, 
but  somehow  if  I  had  died  and  waked  up  in 
Heaven  it  might  have  been  just  like  this:  all 
of  the  hard,  hating  faces  gone,  and  a  sweet,  fat 
brown  angel  looking  at  me  so  kindly  and  bring- 
ing me  milk.  Where's  the  honey,  Aunt  New 
Testament?" 

"What  honey,  chil'?"  Aunt  Testy  was  try- 
ing hard  not  to  cry. 

"The  honey  that  goes  with  the  milk!  In 
Heaven  the  honey  always  flows  with  the  milk. 
I'm  going  to  pretend  like,  just  for  a  few  min- 
utes until  I  get  alive  again,  that  I  am  dead  and 
in  Heaven.  You  won't  mind  pretending  you 
are  my  good  angel,  will  you,  Aunt  New 
Testament?" 

"No,  baby!"  sobbed  Aunt  Testy.  "An*  I'll 
git  my  ol*  man  ter  rob  them  bee  hibes  if'n  you 
kin  wait  three  shakes." 

"Never  mind,"  smiled  Rebecca-     "We  can 


Aunt  Testy  Takes  Charge       79 

just  pretend  the  honey  along  with  the  wings. 
This  bacon  makes  me  think  maybe  we  are  in 
Heaven  really.  Are  you  quite  sure  we  aren't, 
Aunt  Testy?  This  bed  might  be  downy  clouds." 

She  bounced  up  and  down  gently  in  the  great 
four-poster.  In  doing  so,  her  slim  little  feet 
came  to  her  notice. 

"I  see  I  have  lost  my  shoes  on  the  way  to 
Heaven,  but  I  have  the  same  hole  in  the  toe  of 
my  stocking  that  I  started  with.  I'd  hate  to 
think  I  had  to  take  the  holes  to  Heaven.  They 
are  kind  of  like  bad  habits  and  should  be  left 
behind.  What  do  you  think  about  that,  Aunt 
Testy?"  and  Rebecca  carefully  picked  up  every 
crumb  of  the  good  bread. 

"  Sister  Pearly  Gates  kin  answer  them  there 
questions  better'n  what  I  kin.  She  am  mo' 
sanctified  an'  kin  profoun'  the  scriptures  mo' 
clarer  than  mos'  preachers.  You  had  better 
arsk  her." 

"Then  you  can  tell  me  where  she  lives.  I 
am  going  to  see  her  before  I  go  back  to  New 
York.  I  think  it  is  a  kind  of  pity  to  come 
so  far  and  not  see  the  wonders  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, don't  you  Aunt  Testy?" 

"Sho',  chiT,  but  you  ain't  a  gonter  go  off! 
We  all  wants  you  right  here  at  Mill  House." 

"Maybe  you  do,  Aunt  New  Testament,  but 


80  The  Shorn  Lamb 

the  others — the  old  man  and  the  young  one  and 
the  two  ladies,  they  hate  me.  I  came  here 
thinking  they  were  my  relations  and  I  was  their 
poor  kin,  but  I  have  made  some  kind  of  mistake. 
They  can't  be  of  the  same  blood  as  my  father, 
although  the  young  man  looks  like  him.  Why, 
Aunt  Testy,  my  father  was  the  kindest,  gentlest 
person  in  the  world.  I  can  only  just  remember 
him,  because  I  was  so  tiny  when  he  died,  but  I 
remember  very  well  he  was  always  laughing  and 
his  laugh  was  sweet  like  singing.  I  can  remem- 
ber more  about  my  father  than  I  might  have 
because  my  last  stepfather,  Daddy,  I  called 
him,  was  always  telling  me  things  about  my 
truly  father.  Daddy  was  the  one  who  knew 
about  Aunt  Pearly  Gates  and  you  and  Aunt 
Old  Testament,  because  my  father  had  told  him. 
He  said  he  didn't  want  me  to  forget  my  father 
and  what  a  wonderful  person  he  was." 

"Lawd  love  us!  Now,  ain't  it  the  truf?  But, 
honey  baby,  you  air  a  gonter  stay  right  here  an* 
tell  me  an'  ol'  Marse  Bob  all  about  yo'  paw 
an'  yo'  step  paws." 

Aunt  Testy  could  see  the  master  through  the 
open  door  and  he  was  signaling  for  her  to  try 
to  please  Rebecca.  The  darkey  could  tell  by 
his  expression  that  he  was  deeply  concerned, 
and  the  coming  of  this  grandchild  had  meant 


Aunt  Testy  Takes  Charge       8X 

more  to  him  than  anything  since  his  little  Tom 
was  born.  Testy  knew  Major  Taylor's  rough- 
ness and  his  kindness,  his  hard  spots  and  his 
soft  spots.  She  had  not  cooked  at  Mill  House 
for  thirty  years  for  nothing.  She  had  been 
introduced  into  the  mysteries  of  the  master's 
kitchen  when  she  was  twenty  years  old,  Aunt 
Old  Testament  being  in  charge,  and  now  she 
was  a  middle-aged  woman  and  her  mother  was 
dead  and  the  master  an  old  man.  Tom,  Myra, 
and  Evelyn  had  been  little  children  when  she 
had  come,  a  shy,  slim,  brown  girl,  to  learn  the 
art  of  cooking  under  her  mother.  She  had  been 
with  the  family  when  the  wife  and  mother  had 
died,  and  later  on  when  Tom  had  gone  off  to 
study  painting  in  New  York,  thereby  infuriat- 
ing his  father  to  such  an  extent  that  he  had  re- 
turned his  son's  letters  unopened.  She  was  with 
them  when  the  terrible  news  of  Tom's  death  was 
read  out  by  one  of  his  sisters  from  a  New  York 
paper.  She  had  watched  her  master  grow  harder 
and  more  bitter  as  the  years  rolled  by;  had  real- 
ized his  disappointment  in  his  children,  his  lone- 
liness and  lack  of  companionship. 

Now  this  child  had  come  and  she  might  help 
matters  somewhat  if  only  the  ladies  of  the  house 
and  the  young  master  would  be  pleasant.  Testy 
knew  quite  well  that  when  it  came  to  a  test  the 


82 

Major  had  a  kinder  heart  than  any  of  his 
children. 

"He  air  as  rockified  as  a  coconut,  but  whin 
oncet  you  git  through  his  ems'  you  fin'  the  milk 
er  human  kin'ness  is  thar,  all  right,"  she  would 
declare.  "But  you  is  got  ter  be  'ticular  'bout 
how  you  goes  ter  wuck  ter  git  that  milk  er  you'll 
spill  it.  You  got  ter  fin'  his  soft'  spots  same  as 
in  a  coconut  and  then  bo'  in  under  keerful." 

She  was  fond  of  Evelyn  and  Myra  and 
Spottswood  because  they  were  part  of  the  fam- 
ily, but  she  understood  their  limitations  quite  as 
well  as  their  own  father  did.  She  was  more 
lenient  to  their  faults  and  quicker  to  see  their 
virtues. 

"The  po'  things  is  done  got  mo'  fum  they 
maw  than  fum  they  paw,  an'  they  maw  didn't 
hab  none  ter  spare,"  she  would  say  to  herself 
when  something  arose  in  the  family  that  called 
for  intelligence  and  action,  and  Evelyn  and 
Myra  would  begin  to  wrangle  instead  of  doing 
and  Spot  would  stand  sullenly  by. 

"I  am  much  better  now,  Aunt  Testy,  and  I 
think  I'll  put  on  my  shoes  and  go  see  Aunt 
Pearly  Gates  and  then  go  back  to  New  York. 
I'd  like  to  see  Mr.  Philip  Boiling  and  tell  him 
good-bye  and  thank  him  for  all  his  kindness 
to  me." 


Aunt  Testy  Takes  Charge       83 

Rebecca  sat  up  and  reached  for  her  shoes, 
but  again  the  dizzy  feeling  seized  her  and  she 
was  compelled  to  lie  down. 

"  Oh!  What  am  I  to  do?  I  don't  seem  to  be 
able  to  get  up  and  they  don't  want  me  to  stay 
here.  I  don't  want  to  stay  here,  either,  although 
I  think  it  is  just  like  Heaven.  I  wouldn't  want 
to  stay  in  Heaven  if  I  wasn't  wanted." 

There  was  a  groan  from  the  hall.  The  Major 
could  control  himself  no  longer. 

"What  must  I  do?"  he  asked  tremblingly  of 
Philip. 

"Can't  you  make  her  understand  you  want 
her?"  suggested  Philip. 

"But  how?" 

"Give  the  required  reference,"  smiled  the 
young  man. 

"For  character,  you  mean?" 

"Yes — and  then  prove  you  are  her  grand- 
father." 

"Of  course!  What  an  ass  I  am,  anyhow! 
Young  man,  did  I  understand  you  to  say  you 
are  Rolfe  Boiling's  son?" 

"Yes,  sir!"  Philip  looked  the  old  gentleman 
squarely  in  the  eyes. 

The  Major  stared  back,  keenly  and  a  little 
wistfully,  taking  in  his  broad  forehead,  humor- 
ous eyes,  clear-cut  features,  and  mouth  whose 


84  The  Shorn  Lamb 

characteristics  were  sadness,  patience  and 
strength. 

"Have  I  ever  seen  you  before?  I  did  not 
remember  Boiling  had  a  grown  son." 

Philip  smiled,  as  he  answered: 

"I  have  seen  you,  sir,  many  times.  When  I 
was  a  boy  my  father  often  sent  me  here  with 
messages  about — " 

Philip  hesitated,  remembering  that  the  mes- 
sages were  always  complaints  about  one  thing 
or  another — the  Major's  cows  having  crossed 
the  river  and  got  in  the  Boilings'  corn,  or  maybe 
a  Boiling  sow  had  strayed  with  her  young,  and 
when  she  was  brought  back  by  a  Taylor  servant 
the  progeny  had  fallen  short  of  the  original 
number  and  the  owner  had  written  an  indignant 
note  accusing  the  Taylor  darkey  of  deliberate 
theft  and  even  intimating  the  master  had  been 
cognizant  of  the  shortage. 

In  recalling  those  notes  Philip  Boiling  felt 
himself  blushing  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  not 
only  because  of  the  spirit  of  unneighborliness 
that  had  prompted  them,  but  because  of  the 
badly  spelled  scrawls  in  which  his  father  had 
written  the  sow  "sough"  and  how  Major  Tay- 
lor had  answered  in  kind  bringing  counter 
charges  concerning  his  "  c-o-u-g-h  "  cow. 

"Yes!    Yes!    I  remember  there  was  a  boy," 


Aunt  Testy  Takes  Charge       85 

said  the  Major,  hurriedly.     "And  where  have 
you  been  all  these  years?" 

"Columbia  University!" 

"What  have  you  been  doing  there?" 

"Trying  to  get  some  education!" 

"And  did  you?" 

"I  hare  just  started.  I  have  my  M.  A., 
but—" 

"Now  you  have  to  stop?" 

"  I  have  to  work  on  the  farm.  For  every  year 
of  study  I  have  promised  my  father  a  year  of 
farm  work." 

Philip  made  the  statement  quite  simply. 
Major  Taylor  gave  a  short  dry  laugh. 

"  It  is  comforting  in  a  way  to  find  out  I  am 
not  the  only  old  fool  in  the  neighborhood,"  he 
said  shortly.  "  But  young  man,  would  you  mind 
if  I  complimented  you  a  bit  and  told  you  that 
I  am  of  the  opinion  you  are  what  in  breeding 
is  known  as  a  'throw  back'?" 

Dr.  Price  arrived  at  this  moment  and  soon 
pronounced  Rebecca  as  overwrought  and  under- 
nourished. 

"She  must  rest  a  great  deal,  have  plenty  of 
fresh  air  and  much  wholesome  food,"  was  his 
verdict.  "What  have  you  been  eating,  child?" 

"Crackers  and  tea,  principally,"  Rebecca  an- 
swered. "  We  had  a  lot  of  tea  on  hand  and  you 


86  The  Shorn  Lamb 

don't  have  to  wash  up  after  crackers,  but  just 
blow  the  crumbs  away." 

"Well,  much  more  of  that  kind  of  food  and 
we  can  just  blow  you  away.  She  had  better 
stay  in  bed  for  a  few  days,  Major  Taylor," 
the  doctor  said.  "Is  she  to  remain  in  this 
room?" 

"Hardly!"  exclaimed  Myra  and  Evelyn  in 
one  breath.  "This  is  Father's  chamber!" 

The  aunts  had  been  hovering  in  the  back- 
ground until  the  doctor  arrived  and  then  they 
had  come  forward.  The  poor  ladies  were  at  a 
loss  as  to  what  was  expected  of  them.  They 
had  taken  their  cue  from  their  father  in  deciding 
the  queer-looking  little  creature  who  had  arrived 
so  unexpectedly  in  their  midst  was  not  their 
brother's  child  and  had  not  been  prepared  for 
this  sudden  change.  They  were  determined  to 
go  on  in  their  assumption  that  Rebecca  was  an 
impostor.  For  once  they  were  of  one  mind,  and 
they  knew  instinctively  that  their  brother  agreed 
with  them.  He  had  telephoned  for  the  doctor 
at  his  father's  command,  but  had  done  it  with 
a  poor  grace,  and  on  his  handsome  countenance 
an  expression  of  sullen  unconcern. 

" Oh!  I  mustn't  stay  in  this  room,  then,"  said 
Rebecca,  sitting  up  in  the  great  bed  and  trying 
not  to  let  the  dizzy  feeling  get  the  better  of 


Aunt  Testy  Takes  Charge       87 

her.    "  I  can  travel  back  to  New  York  in  a  few 
minutes,  I  am  sure.    Can't  I,  doctor?" 

The  doctor  was  puzzled. 

"I  understood  from  your  grandfather  that 
you  were  to  live  here  with  him." 

Rebecca  said  nothing,  but  slowly  turned  her 
eyes,  looking  in  turn  at  each  person  standing 
around  her  bed.  The  countenances  of  the  aunts 
registered  coldness  and  dislike ;  the  young  uncle, 
who  was  in  the  background,  showed  a  kind  of 
sullen  rage;  Aunt  Testy  was  wiping  the  tears 
from  her  kindly  fat  face. 

Dr.  Price  tried  to  appear  impersonal,  real- 
izing that  he  had  put  his  foot  in  a  family  affair, 
but  his  pleasant  eyes  gave  back  a  sympathetic 
gleam  as  his  little  patient  looked  at  him.  Turn- 
ing to  Philip  Boiling,  Rebecca  read  trust  and 
encouragement  in  his  face.  He  gave  her  a  nod 
and  a  smile.  Still  sitting  bolt  upright  in  the 
great  four-posted  bed,  the  girl  now  bent  a  level 
gaze  on  her  grandfather,  who  was  leaning  for- 
ward as  though  hungrily  waiting  for  her  inspec- 
tion of  the  other  persons  in  the  room  to  be  fin- 
ished and  for  his  time  to  come.  The  Major  met 
her  look  squarely  and  for  a  few  seconds  young 
brown  eyes  looked  into  old  blue  ones.  What 
brown  eyes  saw  in  'blue  and  what  blue  eyes  saw 
in  brown  no  one  in  the  room  could  divine,  but 


88  The  Shorn  Lamb 

suddenly,  without  the  least  warning,  old  man 
and  young  girl  began  to  laugh.  The  laugh 
proved  their  kinship. 

Evelyn  and  Myra  were  plainly  shocked. 
They  were  accustomed  to  their  father's  going 
off  in  sudden  chuckling  fits  at  what  seemed  to 
them  solemn  or  distressing  moments.  They  had 
been  forced  to  put  up  with  what  they  consid- 
ered his  misplaced  fun,  and  now  here  was  this 
terrible  child  behaving  in  the  same  unaccount- 
able manner.  What  was  there  to  laugh  about? 

"That's  better!"  announced  Dr.  Price,  put- 
ting his  stethoscope  back  in  his  black  satchel. 
"I  reckon  this  little  lady  will  soon  be  on  her 
feet.  Mind  now,  plenty  of  fresh  air  and  nour- 
ishing food,  no  more  crackers  and  tea,  and  I 
shouldn't  advise  a  railroad  journey  for  some 
time  to  come." 

"Might  I  have  the  room  my  father  used  to 
have?"  asked  Rebecca.  "That  is,  if  I  am  to 
stay?" 

Philip  Boiling  and  the  doctor,  who  were 
friends  of  long  standing,  went  off  together,  both 
of  them  evidently  entirely  satisfied  with  the  turn 
affairs  had  taken  at  Mill  House. 

"It  will  be  the  salvation  of  old  Bob  Taylor 
if  he  can  keep  the  child,"  Dr.  Price  said  to 
Philip  as  they  sped  away  in  the  doctor's  little 


89 

car.  "The  old  man  is  almost  bored  to  death 
with  his  wooden-headed  daughters.  I  don't 
envy  the  girl,  however.  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to 
cope  with  humorless  fools." 


Chapter  6 
IN  AUNT  PEACHY'S  REALM 

The  Hedges  was  a  perfect  specimen  of  colo- 
nial architecture,  red  brick  with  pillared  portico 
and  deep  cornice  of  beautiful  proportion  and 
workmanship.  Every  detail  had  been  carefully 
considered  by  the  builder.  The  windows  and 
doors  were  not  mere  holes  in  the  walls  but  dec- 
orative spaces  whose  size,  shape  and  position 
were  of  paramount  importance  to  the  architec- 
tural effect.  The  finished  whole  had  been  beau- 
tiful, but  that  beauty  had  largely  disappeared 
through  the  vandalism  of  paint  that  generations 
of  Boilings  had  imposed  upon  their  ancestral 
home.  The  mellow  pink  of  the  old  brick  had 
been  spared,  but  wherever  there  was  wood,  as  in 
the  cornice,  blinds  and  pillars  of  the  portico, 
paint  had  been  applied  recklessly.  The  crenela- 
tions  of  the  cornice  from  successive  coats  had 
lost  the  clear  cut  decision  that  had  made  for 
beauty  and  were  but  indistinct  rounded  lumps. 
The  indentations  of  the  fluted  columns  of  the 
portico  had  gradually  been  filled  in. 

The  present  owner  of  The  Hedges  had  out- 

90 


In  Aunt  Peachy's  Realm        91 

done  all  of  his  predecessors  in  the  choice  of 
paint.  The  last  coat  that  had  been  applied  was 
a  green  that  warred  with  the  pink  of  the  old 
brick  and  refused  to  be  reconciled  with  any  of 
the  greens  of  Nature.  In  many  places  the 
paint  had  peeled  off,  disclosing  the  taste  of 
former  possessors,  here  a  patch  of  dismal  brown, 
there  a  bit  of  faded  tan.  In  several  places  a 
splotch  of  gleaming  white  cried  out  as  from  the 
grave  of  better  days. 

The  grounds,  which  had  been  as  well  laid  out 
as  any  in  the  Old  Dominion,  had  suffered  from 
neglect  and  ill  treatment  even  more  than  the 
mansion.  The  yard  of  ten  acres  was  enclosed 
by  a  mock-orange  hedge  which  had  not  been 
clipped  within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabi- 
tant of  the  county,  and  had  in  consequence 
grown  into  a  row  of  straggling  trees,  thorny 
and  uncouth,  but  held  in  high  favor  by  the 
birds,  who  could  build  there  with  impunity,  the 
spiky  branches  offering  protection  against 
marauding  cats  and  snakes.  The  rolling  lawn 
had  been  ploughed  and  planted  in  potatoes.  A 
small  grass  plot  had  been  left  around  the  house, 
not  for  beauty's  sake  but  because  it  gave  turn- 
ing room  for  the  plough  horses. 

The  western  part  of  the  lawn  was  traversed 
by  a  gurgling  brook  which  had  been  the  delight 


92  The  Shorn  Lamb 

of  the  founder  of  The  Hedges  branch  of  the 
Boiling  family,  since  it  had  established  the  site 
for  the  sunken  garden,  giving  an  opportunity 
for  a  fountain  in  the  lower  part  of  the  yard. 
This  sunken  garden  was  about  two  hundred  feet 
square,  enclosed  by  a  box  hedge  and  with  box 
bushes  set  formally  at  the  corners.  Tradition 
asserted  that  this  garden  had  been  the  wonder 
of  the  countryside.  It  had  been  planned  by  an 
English  landscape  gardener  and  the  owner  had 
spent  a  fortune  on  its  making  and  upkeep. 

If  the  charming  Boiling  who  had  taken  such 
pleasure  in  his  garden,  writh  its  ever-changing 
riot  of  color  as  the  seasons  advanced,  could  have 
seen  the  sad  havoc  time  and  neglect  and  stupid- 
ity had  played  with  his  treasure,  no  doubt  he 
would  have  turned  over  in  the  grave  where  he 
was  lying  so  peacefully  in  the  little  burying 
ground  under  the  great  chestnut  tree  on  the 
hill  beyond. 

The  box  hedge  around  the  sunken  garden  had 
shared  a  like  fate  with  the  one  of  mock-orange 
that  enclosed  the  yard.  It  had  grown  to  a  great 
height  and  was  thick  with  dead  wood.  Rolfe 
Boiling  had  declared  it  was  "  horse  high  and  hog 
strong"  and  had  finally  turned  the  garden  into 
a  pigpen.  There  was  no  trace  now  of  the  pretty 
gravel  walks.  Perhaps  never  again  would  the 


In  Aunt  Peachy's  Realm        93 

purple  and  white  of  the  iris  and  violet  succeed 
the  daffodil,  only  to  give  way  to  the  red  and 
gold  of  the  tulip  and  those  in  turn  to  the  blue 
of  love-in-the-mist,  cornflower  and  ageratum. 
For  almost  four  years  hogs  had  rooted  where 
had  bloomed  snowdrop  and  crocus.  The  rose  of 
England  and  the  lily  of  France  were  dead. 
The  hogs  had  succeeded  in  uprooting  almost 
everything.  One  sturdy  seven-sister  rose  had 
been  benefited  by  much  digging  around  its 
roots  and  had  grown  to  goodly  size.  Clusters 
of  tiny  pink  buds  covered  the  bush  as  though  to 
flaunt  in  the  face  of  the  porkers  the  superiority 
of  seven-sisters  over  them. 

The  marble  basin  of  the  fountain  had  proven 
an  ideal  hog  wallow.  The  little  bronze  boy  who 
for  so  many  years  had  tirelessly  held  aloft  the 
shell  in  which  to  catch  the  pearly  drops  that 
sprayed  from  the  simply  contrived  fountain 
had  toppled  over  and  was  so  covered  with  mud 
that  even  the  hogs  had  lost  sight  of  him.  The 
sun-dial,  whose  fluted  column  had  been  such  an 
excellent  scratching  post  for  razor-backs,  was 
also  prone  and  seemed  to  be  awaiting  burial. 

To  the  rear  of  the  mansion  'buildings  that  had 
in  early  days  been  placed  out  of  sight  and  far 
away  from  the  house  had  gradually  crept  closer 
as  rebuilding  had  from  time  to  time  become 


94  The  Shorn  Lamb 

necessary,  and  now  the  smokehouse,  corn  crib, 
and  henhouse  were  cheek  by  jowl  with  the  great 
house.  The  cow  stable  and  barn  were  close 
enough  to  give  olfactory  evidence  of  their  prox- 
imity and  a  huge  manure  pile  had  thrust  itself 
into  the  foreground  of  the  landscape. 

The  Boilings  were  true  F.  F.  V.'s.  Not  only 
were  they  among  the  first  settlers  in  the  new 
world,  'but  the  founder  of  the  Virginia  family 
was  of  noble  birth.  This  particular  branch  of 
Boilings  had  settled  at  The  Hedges  in  the 
eighteenth  century.  The  first  house  had  been 
of  logs,  two  rooms  and  a  loft,  with  an  open 
passage  dividing  the  rooms  and  huge  stone 
chimneys  on  both  sides  of  the  house.  Later  on 
this  house  had  been  abandoned  for  the  great 
brick  mansion  and  the  old  home  turned  over  to 
the  slaves.  It  was  still  occupied  by  the  numer- 
ous descendants  of  Aunt  Peachy. 

The  son  of  that  early  Boiling  who  had  taken 
such  delight  and  pride  in  his  garden  had  married 
the  daughter  of  his  father's  overseer.  That  was 
in  Revolutionary  times,  and  since  then  it  had 
become  a  habit  of  the  sons  of  the  house  to  mate 
beneath  them  socially.  There  had  been  a  grad- 
ual sinking  of  standards  through  the  generations 
until  at  the  present  time  the  owner  of  The 
Hedges  had  reached  the  lowest  rung  of  the 


In  Aunt  Peachy's  Realm        95 

ladder.  No  one  could  have  believed  that  Rolfe 
Boiling  had  in  his  veins  a  drop  of  the  aristo- 
cratic blood  of  the  Cavaliers.  He  was  illiterate, 
untidy,  miserly,  pugnacious.  He  could  write 
with  difficulty  and  often  varied  in  spelling  his 
own  name.  His  father,  who  was  a  weak,  dull 
man,  had  tried  to  have  his  son  educated,  but 
Rolfe  had  refused  with  the  stubbornness  which 
characterized  him. 

"Book  larnin'  ain't  nothin'  but  foolishness," 
he  had  asserted  in  the  vernacular  learned  from 
Aunt  Peachy,  his  old  colored  mammy.  "  Read- 
in'  an'  writin'  don't  git  rid  er  no  tater  bugs, 
an*  spellin'  don't  grow  no  craps.  Th'ain't  no 
man  in  this  here  county  what  kin  do  me  out'n 
a  nickel  that  he  owes  me,  an'  it  don't  take  much 
'rithmetic  fer  me  ter  know  that  a  dollar  saved  is 
a  dollar  an'  six  cents  in  a  year  an'  a  dollar  spent 
is  mo'n  apt  ter  drag  some  mo'  along  with  it." 

Why  Elizabeth  Wheeler  had  married  Rolfe 
Boiling  had  been  the  wonder  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. She  was  a  handsome,  upstanding  girl 
who  might  have  done  better  for  herself. 
Twenty-five  years  had  elapsed  since  she  had 
come  as  a  bride  to  The  Hedges,  and  hard,  bitter 
years  they  had  been.  At  first  she  had  tried  to 
reform  her  husband's  untidy  hafoits  and  to  cor- 
rect his  English,  but  he  only  laughed  at  her 


96  The  Shorn  Lamb 

attempts  and  became  more  slovenly  in  his  habits 
and  careless  in  his  speech. 

Aunt  Peachy  had  resented  bitterly  and  vin- 
dictively the  marriage  of  Rolfe  Boiling.  She 
had  been  sole  mistress  of  The  Hedges  since  the 
death  of  Rolfe's  mother  forty  years  before,  and 
she  had  no  idea  of  handing  over  the  keys  to  any 
"po'  white  pusson,"  as  she  designated  her  mas- 
ter's young  wife.  She  had  cared  for  Rolfe  since 
he  was  a  baby  and  had  taken  delight  in  spoiling 
the  little  white  boy.  She  had  encouraged  him 
to  be  sly  and  untruthful,  and  had  applauded  his 
gluttony  and  had  made  him  feel  that  he  was 
superior  to  all  others  and  that  good  behavior 
was  not  incumbent  upon  him. 

Elizabeth  had  been  reared  in  a  clean  and 
decent  home,  although  it  had  been  small  and 
poor,  and  the  untidy  condition  of  The  Hedges 
was  more  than  she  could  bear,  but  any  change 
was  accomplished  only  after  bitter  revilings 
from  Aunt  Peachy,  who  was  in  fact  still  mis- 
tress of  the  place.  Her  appetite  had  rebelled 
at  the  coarse,  greasy  food,  and  before  Philip 
was  l)orn  Dr.  Price  had  insisted  that  she  be 
allowed  to  do  her  own  cooking.  Once  this  privi- 
lege was  accorded  her  she  held  to  it,  although 
Aunt  Peachy  continued  to  cater  to  her  master 
until  she  became  so  feeble  she  was  forced  to 


In  Aunt  Peachy's  Realm        97 

give  up  active  ministrations,  but  her  place  was 
in  a  corner  of  the  kitchen  behind  the  stove, 
where  she  sat  from  morning  until  night  doing 
what  she  called  "the  haid  work"  of  the 
household. 

"Put  mo'  cracklin'  in  that  there  cawn  pone!" 
she  commanded  Elizabeth,  who  was  busily 
engaged  in  preparing  dinner  for  her  hus- 
band. "You's  mo'n  willin'  ter  starve  my  baby 
ter  skin-an'-bone."  Aunt  Peachy  always  called 
Rolfe  Boiling  her  baby,  although  he  was  a  man 
almost  seventy  years  old.  "He  wouldn't  git 
'nough  suption  in  his  victuals  ter  keep  body  an* 
soul  together  if  it  wa'n't  fer  his  ol'  mammy. 
You's  sech  a  han'  ter  scrimpin'  the  grease." 

Elizabeth  said  nothing,  but  put  another  spoon- 
ful of  hog  cracklings  in  the  batter.  She  had 
long  ago  determined  that  there  was  no  use  in 
contending  with  either  her  husband  or  the  old 
negress  where  small  matters  were  concerned, 
but  saved  her  energy  for  what  she  considered 
fundamentals,  such  as  the  rearing  and  educating 
of  her  children. 

Aunt  Peachy  did  not  hesitate  to  twit  her  mis- 
tress with  the  fact  that  she  belonged  to  the  poor 
white  class,  and  such  was  the  old  woman's  influ- 
ence over  Rolfe  Boiling  that  he  had  been  known 
to  sit  by  and  laugh  while  his  wife  was  being 


98  The  Shorn  Lamb 

insulted     by     the     evil-tongued    old     negress. 

Sometimes  Elizabeth  would  stop  in  her  work 
and  look  at  the  wretched  old  creature  huddled 
up  in  the  corner  of  the  kitchen  which  was  sacred 
to  her  and  the  thought  would  come:  "Oh,  Lord, 
how  long?  How  long?"  It  would  be  so  easy 
to  kill  her,  and  there  were  moments  when  she 
felt  that  the  killing  of  the  hateful  old  woman 
would  be  no  more  of  a  crime  than  putting  a 
gnawing  rat  out  of  existence. 

Aunt  Peachy  had  a  strange  scuttling  glide 
and  could  slip  herself  through  an  inconceivably 
small  crack.  The  old  woman  was  feeble,  her 
energy  was  almost  gone,  but  at  moments  she 
would  pull  herself  together  and  suddenly  dart 
from  her  chair  to  investigate  something  that 
was  going  on  in  another  part  of  the  house. 
Curiosity  was  her  ruling  passion  and  very  little 
happened  at  The  Hedges  without  her  knowl- 
edge. By  some  seemingly  occult  power  she 
usually  managed  to  know  what  was  going  on 
in  the  neighborhood,  too.  No  colored  person 
dared  come  on  the  place  without  bringing  her 
some  bit  of  gossip.  She  was  a  power  with  the 
lower  class  of  her  own  people  and  held  them  in 
subjection  by  imposing  on  their  superstitious 
fears.  She  was  supposed  to  work  charms,  and  a 
choice  morsel  of  news,  the  more  scandalous  the 


In  Aunt  Peachy's  Realm        99 

better,  insured  the  bearer  from  bad  luck,  if  not 
actually  bringing  him  good  luck.  Elizabeth 
wondered  sometimes  if  her  husband's  complete 
subjection  to  his  old  nurse  was  not  in  a  measure 
due  to  his  superstitious  fear  of  her. 

Philip,  the  first  born,  had  as  a  child  been 
afraid  of  Aunt  Peachy  and  the  mother  had 
gloried  in  the  fact.  As  he  grew  beyond  fear 
he  had  hated  her  as  one  might  hate  a  rat  or  a 
snake.  The  other  two  children,  Betsy  and  little 
Jo,  had  no  fear  of  the  old  woman.  They  seemed 
to  feel  she  was  a  huge  joke,  a  person  at  whom 
one  laughed  and  on  whom  children  played 
tricks.  Strange  to  say,  the  old  woman  rather 
enjoyed  the  role  into  which  she  was  forced  by 
the  two  younger  children,  who  even  made  game 
of  their  father. 

"Philip  is  coming  home!  My  Philip!"  kept 
singing  in  Elizabeth's  heart  as  she  prepared 
dinner  for  her  husband  on  that  morning  in 
June.  What  difference  did  it  make  if  Aunt 
Peachy  did  tell  her  to  put  more  cracklings  in 
the  corn  bread?  What  difference  did  anything 
make  that  was  not  connected  with  her  Philip? 

She  longed  for  the  return  of  her  son,  her  first 
born,  and  she  dreaded  it,  too — dreaded  it  for 
his  sake.  Life  was  not  to  be  what  she  would 
have  had  it  be  for  the  boy.  Not  only  did  hard 


100  The  Shorn  Lamb 

manual  labor  await  him,  but  gibes  and  bicker- 
ings. His  father  never  let  an  opportunity  pass 
to  find  fault  with  him  and  oppose  him,  not  from 
any  actual  dislike  he  had  for  his  son,  but  from 
a  kind  of  jealous  envy.  Philip  was  all  he  had 
not  been  and  in  spite  of  the  flattery  of  Aunt 
Peachy,  Rolfe  Boiling  had  sense  enough  to 
know  that  he  had  not  made  the  best  of  his 
opportunities. 

"When  you  'spectin'  of  that  there  Phup?" 
queried  Aunt  Peachy,  almost  as  though  divining 
the  thoughts  of  her  mistress.  "You  cyarn't 
keep  back  from  me  that  you  is  'lowin'  he'll  be 
along  soon.  All  this  here  scrubbin'  an*  cleanin'! 
It's  a  wonder  my  baby  don't  ketch  his  death 
with  all  the  flo's  wet  with  suds.  I  ain't  nebber 
hearn  tell  er  a  lady  bawn  a  gittin'  down  on  her 
knees  fer  nothin'  but  prayer.  Po'  whites  is 
funny  folk!  Ketch  me  a  scrubbin'  on  my  knees. 
I  ain't  nebber  done  it.  Ol'  marster  ain't  nebber 
required  it  er  me  an'  as  fer  my  baby,  he'd  a  bit 
out  his  tongue  befo'  he'd  arsk  me  ter  do  sich  a 
thing.  I've  been  known  ter  tie  a  rag  roun'  my 
foots  an'  wop  up  a  flo',  but  I's  too  high  bawn 
ter  git  on  my  knees  fer  man  or  beas*.  My  gret- 
gran'pap  wa'  a  Afgan  king  what  hel'  hisse'f 
way  above  po'  whites." 

All  of  this  in  a  high  cackle,  with  never  a  word 


In  Aunt  Peachy's  Realm       101 

from  Elizabeth,  who  went  quietly  on  with  her 
cooking. 

"When  you  say  he  comin'?" 

"I  didn't  say.    I  don't  know." 

"You  been  a  stirrin'  furnisher  'roun'  mighty 
brisk  upstars  lately.  I  'low  you's  fixin'  up 
young  marster's  room,"  putting  an  unmistak- 
able sneering  emphasis  on  "young  marster." 

;'Yes,  I  have  been  arranging  Mr.  Philip's 
room,  thinking  he  might  arrive  in  the  next  few 
days." 

"Mr.  Phup!  Yi,  Yi,  Yi!"  she  cackled. 
"  Is  you  a  thinkin'  I's  a  gonter  call  Phup,  mis- 
ter? I  ain't  called  his  pap  befo'  him  mister,  an' 
I  ain't  a  gonter  call  him  mister.  You  can't  say 
he's  any  better'n  his  pappy,  kin  you?" 

Elizabeth  was  silent  as  to  what  she  might  say 
concerning  her  son's  superiority  to  his  father 

"I  say,  kin  you?"  repeated  the  old  woman, 
venomously.  She  took  extreme  delight  in  try- 
ing to  make  Elizabeth  criticize  her  husband.  A 
soft  padding  noise  in  the  passage  warned  her 
her  master  was  approaching  and  she  raised  her 
voice  to  a  querulous  whine. 

:<  You's  afeerd  ter  say.  Yo'  keepin'  so  dumb 
is  a  sho'  sign  you  thinks  Phup  is  better'n  what 
his  pap  is.  Ain't  nobody  gonter  say  a  word 
against  my  baby  'thout  gittin'  me  riled." 


102  The  Shorn  Lamb 

"Who's  sayin'  a  word  against  yo'  baby?" 
asked  Rolfe  Boiling,  filling  the  doorway  with 
his  great  hulk.  He  looked  in  reality  like  a  huge 
fat  baby  except  for  the  grizzled  fringe  of  a 
two  weeks  growth  of  beard.  Nature  had  given 
him  handsome  features  with  which  to  begin  life, 
but  overindulgence  had  succeeded  in  taking 
from  him  any  claim  to  good  looks  that  might 
have  been  his. 

"This  white  ooman's  a  sayin'  yo'  own  son  is 
better'n  what  you  is,"  declared  Aunt  Peachy. 

Elizabeth  had  made  no  such  statement,  but 
she  scorned  to  contradict  the  old  woman,  espe- 
cially since  she  was  quite  sure  her  son  was  a 
hundred  times  better  than  his  father. 

"How  you  know  he's  so  much  better'n  what 
I  is?"  demanded  Rolfe,  blustering  like  a  con- 
ceited boy.  ;<You  ain't  seen  him  for  mos'  fo* 
years.  Thar  ain't  no  tellin'  what  a  boy  will 
come  to  in  that  time.  He  sho'  is  spent  a  power 
of  money  an'  I  ain't  a  doubt  that  women  an' 
drink  is  whar  it's  gone." 

"Much  money!"  exclaimed  Elizabeth  scorn- 
fully. "He  has  had  barely  sufficient  to  keep 
body  and  soul  together  and  has  had  to  work 
very  hard  to  make  enough  to  buy  clothes  and 
the  necessary  books." 

"  That  ain't  a  makin'  him  better'n  his  pappy,'* 


In  Aunt  Peachy's  Realm      103 

insisted  Aunt  Peachy.  "My  baby  ain't  nebber 
had  ter  'pend  on  clothes  ter  make  him  the  king 
bee,  an'  he  wa'n't  nebber  no  han'  ter  set  aroun* 
showin'  off  with  a  book.  'Tain't  nothin'  but 
showin'  off.  It  stands  ter  reason  that  all  them 
things  you  folks  pertends  ter  read  out'n  a  book 
ain't  thar.  You  air  jes'  a  makin'  up  lies." 

"Ain't  it  the  truth?"  laughed  Rolfe  Boiling. 
"You've  hit  the  nail  on  the  head  that  time, 
Mam*  Peachy.  What  do  you  say  to  a  drap  o* 
somethin'?" 

"I  say,  praise  the  Lawd!" 

"Do  you  want  yo'  baby  to  mix  up  a  toddy?" 

"No  sirree!  I  don't  want  nothin'  mixed  in 
mine.  Time  was  when  I  didn't  min'  a  lil'  sugar 
an*  water  'longside  er  my  dram,  but  my  oT 
gullet  craves  jes'  plain  juice  now.  If'n  you  put 
anything  in  it  put  a  dash  er  red  pepper." 

The  old  woman  leered  greedily  while  her 
master  padded  around  the  kitchen  getting  tin 
cups  from  the  shelves  and  unlocking  a  corner 
cupboard,  taking  therefrom  a  brown  jug  which, 
holding  to  his  ear,  he  shook  tentatively. 

"  Gittin'  powerful  low!  Is  you  been  a  suckin* 
my  bottle?"  he  asked  suspiciously. 

"  Laws-a-mussy,  honey  chil',  how  could  ol* 
Peachy  git  in  yo'  closet?  I  ain't  mo'n  crawled 
from  my  room  ter  my  cheer  an'  back  f er  over  a 


104  The  Shorn  Lamb 

month  now,  come  Sunday.  P'raps  some  er  them 
thar  Wheelers  is  been  a  callin'." 

Rolfe  grunted  his  disapproval  of  whomever 
had  been  meddling  with  his  precious  jug  and 
poured  out  a  generous  drink  for  Aunt  Peachy 
and  one  for  himself.  It  was  well  known  that 
Elizabeth's  one  brother,  who  occasionally  came 
to  see  his  sister,  was  a  strict  church  member  and 
a  teetotaler,  but  Aunt  Peachy  always  intimated 
that  he  was  responsible  for  any  diminution  in 
the  Boiling  supply  of  liquor.  No  lock  was 
proof  against  her  clever  old  fingers,  and  the  jug 
of  whisky  might  just  as  well  have  been  left  on 
the  kitchen  table  for  safety  as  locked  in  the 
cupboard.  With  a  bent  hairpin  or  a  crooked 
nail  the  old  woman  could  have  picked  any  lock. 
Rolfe  Boiling  always  locked  up  his  jug  and 
Aunt  Peachy  always  stole  from  him  what  liquor 
she  wanted. 

"Liquor's  harder  an'  harder  to  git,"  said 
Rolfe,  as  he  took  a  great  gulp  from  the  tin  cup. 

Elizabeth  sniffed  disdainfully.  The  smell  of 
the  whisky  was  sickening  to  her.  There  had 
been  moments  in  those  twenty-five  years  of  h°r 
life  at  The  Hedges  when  she  had  felt  that  she 
would  go  mad  and  smash  the  brown  jug.  She 
had  even  had  the  courage  to  remonstrate  with 
her  husband  and  the  old  negress,  trying  to  per- 


In  Aunt  Peachy's  Realm       105 

suade  them  to  be  more  abstemious,  but  that  was 
in  the  early  days.  She  had  long  since  ceased  to 
try  to  change  their  habits,  but  the  odor  still 
sickened  her.  Sometimes  the  thought  came  to 
her  that  it  would  be  wise  to  encourage  them  and 
they  might  drink  themselves  to  death,  but  the 
alcohol  only  seemed  to  preserve  Aunt  Peachy 
and  as  far  as  she  could  see  did  no  harm  to  Rolfe. 
Certainly  they  were  much  pleasanter  when  they 
had  had  their  dram,  and  it  was  easier  to  get 
along  with  both  the  old  negress  and  the  master 
when  they  were  slightly  under  the  influence  of 
Kquor.  Elizabeth  hated  to  have  Betsy  and  Jo 
present  while  the  jug  was  being  passed  around* 
and  she  shrank  pitifully  from  the  thought  of 
Philip  having  to  come  in  contact  with  it,  a?  he 
surely  would  as  soon  as  he  came  home. 


Chapter  7 
PHILIP'S  HOME-COMING 

A  sound  of  gay  chatter,  followed  by  a  peal  of 
laughter,  came  from  around  the  side  of  the 
house. 

"That's  that  thar  Betsy!  Who  you  reckon 
she  larfin'  at  now?"  queried  Aunt  Peachy,  tin 
cup  raised  to  her  protruding  lips. 

A  step  on  the  flagging!  Elizabeth's  heart 
lost  a  beat.  A  man's  deep  voice  asking: 
"Where's  Mother?"  Then  her  two  children 
standing  arm  in  arm  in  the  kitchen  doorway! 

"I  walked  all  the  way  to  the  pike,  Mother," 
said  Betsy.  "I  was  so  sure  he  was  coming. 
Here  he  is!" 

"Mother!" 

"My  boy!" 

Philip  gave  his  mother  one  long  kiss  and 
then  turned  to  his  father,  holding  out  his  hand: 

"Father,  I  am  back." 

"Humph!  High  time!"  Rolfe  Boiling 
shook  his  son's  hand  flabbily.  There  was  some- 
thing about  Philip  that  made  him  feel  uncom- 
fortable. He  tried  to  find  the  reason  in  his 

106 


Philip's  Home-Coming         107 

befuddled  brain.  He  had  a  vague  feeling  that 
it  was  because  he  looked  strangely  like  one  of 
the  far-off  Boiling  ancestors — the  one  in  pow- 
dered cue  and  high  stock  that  used  to  hang 
in  the  parlor  and  had  been  discarded  for  a 
crayon  portrait  of  more  recent  date.  As  a  little 
boy  Rolfe  had  been  afraid  of  the  portrait, 
although  fascinated  by  it.  Aunt  Peachy  had 
used  his  fear  of  it  to  control  the  child,  making 
vague  threats  that  "the  ol'  man  wif  his  th'oat 
all  wropped  up  was  a  gonter  ketch  him."  Both 
the  old  negress  and  the  little  white  boy  believed 
it  was  this  very  man  who  had  hanged  himself  in 
the  attic,  connecting  his  stock  with  the  noose, 
but  they  were  mistaken.  The  portrait  in  ques- 
tion was  of  the  charming  gentleman  who  had 
planned  the  sunken  garden  and  was  responsible 
for  the  noble  proportions  of  The  Hedges. 

Philip  had  changed  decidedly  from  the  boy 
of  nineteen.  He  had  always  had  a  certain  poise 
in  his  bearing  in  spite  of  the  too  long  legs  and 
arms,  accentuated  by  the  too  short  sleeves  and 
trousers  of  the  country-made  clothes  in  which 
he  had  last  been  seen  by  his  family.  Now,  not 
only  did  his  clothes  fit  him,  but  he  fitted  his 
clothes.  He  impressed  his  people  as  he  had 
Major  Taylor.  He  had  the  indescribable  air 
of  birth  and  breeding.  The  set  of  his  head,  turn 


108  The  Shorn  Lamb 

of  his  wrist,  slender  strong  hands  and  well  shod, 
shapely  feet  all  bespoke  the  gentleman. 

Elizabeth  looked  at  her  son  with  a  heart  full 
of  joy  and  thankfulness.  She  felt  that  he  would 
be  able  to  cope  with  the  difficulties  that  were 
sure  to  beset  his  path. 

"Where  is  little  Jo?"  asked  Philip.  "I  cer- 
tainty do  want  to  see  the  kid." 

"  He's  not  little  Jo  any  more,"  said  the  mother 
sadly.  "  You  can  almost  see  the  boy  grow." 

"He's  off  down  the  river  fishing  with  Jim 
Strong,"  answered  Betsy.  "Jim  is  trying  to 
get  religion  again  and  he  says  the  fishermen  in 
the  Bible  were  holy  men  and  maybe  if  he  fishes 
enough  he  can  come  through.  Jim  is  a  silly  old 
nigger.  Jo  is  always  running  with  those  farm 
hands  and  it  certainly  doesn't  improve  his  man- 
ners any.  I  do  hope,  now  you  are  home,  you  will 
make  him  mend  his  ways,  Philip." 

Philip  looked  inquiringly  at  his  mother  and 
saw  on  her  face  a  troubled  look.  He  put  his 
arm  around  her  and  kissed  her  again. 

"  Y'ain't  kissed  ol'  Mam'  Peachy  yit,"  whined 
the  old  negress  from  behind  the  stove. 

Philip  started  in  surprise.  The  old  woman 
had  been  so  quiet  and  was  crouched  so  low  in 
her  chair  he  had  not  been  aware  of  her  presence 
in  the  kitchen. 


Philip's  Home-Coming         109 

"  Yo'  pap  done  kissed  me  time  an*  agin  when 
he  wa'  a  baby,  an'  you  ain't  no  better'n  yo'  pap. 
Yo'  pap  done  set  me  up  an'  put  a  gol'  ring  on 
my  finger." 

"How  do  you  do,  Aunt  Peachy?"  Philip 
spoke  pleasantly,  but  with  a  dignity  that  for  a 
moment  quelled  the  old  woman's  tirade,  and 
before  she  could  collect  her  wits  for  the  tongue- 
lashing  she  meant  to  give  the  young  master  he 
turned  to  his  mother  with: 

"  I  would  have  been  here  sooner,  but  I  had  to 
take  a  little  girl  over  to  Mill  House."  He  told 
them  of  Rebecca's  arrival  and  Aunt  Peachy  was, 
as  usual,  appeased  by  the  thrill  of  joy  she 
always  experienced  over  a  choice  morsel  of 
news. 

;'You  mean  she  air  Tom  Taylor's  gal?  Lil' 
Tom  Taylor  what  done  lef  home  whin  Betsy 
thar  wa'n't  mo'n  a  baby?  I'll  be  boun'  thar's 
some  lef  handed  doin's-  or  the  gal  would  a  been 
hyar  long  ago.  I'm  a  lowin*  them  thar  hoighty 
toighty  Myras  an  Ev'lyns  will  rar  back  mo'n 
ever  with  proudified  feelin's  'ca'se  they  ain't  a 
gonter  want  ter  have  no  upstart  brat  aroun*  ter 
look  arfter." 

Philip  ignored  the  old  woman  and  went  on  to 
tell  his  mother  of  Rebecca. 

"I  hope  Betsy  and  Jo  can  see  something  of 


110  The  Shorn  Lamb 

the  child.  They  will  like  her,  I  am  sure,  and  it 
will  mean  something  to  the  little  thing  to  have  a 
friend  like  Betsy."  He  looked  upon  his  sister 
with  admiration  and  affection.  Betsy  had  been 
not  much  older  than  Rebecca  when  he  left  home 
and  now  she  was  a  grown  girl,  pretty  beyond 
belief,  with  a  complexion  like  a  Cherokee  rose 
and  grey  eyes  that  twinkled  like  waters  on  a 
starry  night. 

"Oh,  fine!"  exclaimed  Betsy.  "I'd  like  to 
see  somebody  besides  the  cows  and  the  pigs  and 
old  Mam'  Peachy.  I  won't  mind  a  bit  being 
older  than  Rebecca.  I'm  mortal  afraid  of  old 
Major  Taylor  and  his  stuck-up  daughters,  but  I 
think  Mr.  Spot  Taylor  is  as  handsome  as  a  king. 
He  took  a  stone  out  of  the  grey  colt's  foot  only 
last  Sunday,  and  he  was  as  politeful  as  could 
be." 

"Polite!"  corrected  her  mother,  smiling  at 
her  daughter's  enthusiasm. 

"But  he  was  more  than  polite." 

"Mind  out!  Mind  out!"  cackled  Aunt 
Peachy.  "Them  Taylor  men  ain't  ter  be 
trusted.  They  has  a  way  er  lovin'  low  an' 
marryin'  high.  Not  that  the  Boiling  blood  ain't 
mo'  fittin'  than  any  er  that  there  Taylor  blood. 
They  ain't  no  better'n  mountain  po*  whites  ter 
start  wif.  I  hates  the  whole  passel  er  them.  I 


Philip's  Home-Coming         111 

hates  the  white  folks  an'  I  hates  the  black  folks 
on  that  side  er  the  ribber.  I  hates  ol'  Bob  Tay- 
lor, wif  his  teasin'  skeeterish  ways,  an'  I  hates 
his  stiff -backed  cotton-topped  gals.  I  hates  that 
there  fat  Testy  an'  I  hated  her  mammy  bef o' 
her.  I  hates  that  ol'  fool  of  a  Pearly  Gates,  a 
layin*  up  in  the  bed  lak  a  queen.  An'  I  hates 
her  ol'  fool  nigger  husban',  Si  Johnson.  I  ain't 
seed  this  here  young  Spot  Taylor  but  oncet 
lately  an*  I  reckon  he  air  as  bus'in'  open  wif 
conceit  as  the  res'  er  the  mess.  He  ain't  never 
had  no  manners  ter  speak  on.  I's  got  plenty  er 
hate  lef  fer  him,  an'  I's  got  some  ter  spar  fer 
the  liT  brat  what  air  jes'  come." 

Aunt  Peachy,  with  the  cleverness  of  her  type, 
divined  at  once  that  it  annoyed  Philip  for  her  to 
speak  of  Rebecca  in  such  terms.  She  leered  at 
him  impertinently,  leaning  over  and  scratching 
her  ankle  with  the  expression  of  a  vindictive 
ape. 

"Well,  when  Rebecca  Taylor  comes  over  to 
see  me  I  hope  you  will  mend  your  manners,  old 
Mam'  Peachy,"  laughed  Betsy.  "You  mustn't 
scratch  in  her  presence.  She  is  a  young  lady 
from  New  York  and  it  might  shock  her." 

Aunt  Peachy  retorted  in  a  shrill  cackle: 

"Yi!  Yi!  Not  scratch  befo'  mill  folks! 
Yi!  Yi!  I  kin  tell  you-alls  right  here  that 


112  The  Shorn  Lamb 

when  I  itches  I  scratches,  wharever  I  is  an'  whar- 
ever  I  itches.  Ain't  it  the  truf,  my  baby?" 

"Yes,  an'  befo'  I  git  through  with  oF  Bob 
Taylor  he's  a  gonter  be  hollerin'  fer  room  to 
scratch,"  declared  Rolfe  Boiling,  as  he  sank  in 
his  chair  and  began  to  eat  the  dinner  which 
Elizabeth  had  dished  up  for  him.  Rolfe  always 
ate  in  the  kitchen,  Aunt  Peachy  entertaining 
him  with  her  ceaseless  and  scandalous  chatter. 
Elizabeth  had  from  the  very  beginning  insisted 
upon  having  her  meals  with  her  children  in  the 
dining  room. 

"There's  Jo  now!"  cried  Betsy.  "A  string 
of  catfish!  You  needn't  expect  me  to  clean  'em 
and  fry  'em." 

"Nobody's  expectin'  you  to  do  anything  but 
dress  up  and  go  to  the  Court  House,"  was  the 
scornful  rejoinder  of  the  boy  who  came  slouch- 
ing into  the  kitchen.  "Jiminy  crickets!  Who's 
here?"  he  yelled,  as  he  caught  sight  of  Philip. 
"  Golly  Moses,  but  you  are  some  dude!  What'd 
you  bring  me  from  New  York?" 

"Hello,  kid!"  laughed  Philip.  "My,  but 
you've  grown  so  I  can  no  longer  call  you  a  kid! 
I  brought  you  a  camera,  a  mighty  neat  little 
trick  you  can  carry  around  in  your  pocket." 

"Gee!  That's  bully.  I'll  take  a  picture  of 
oF  Mam'  Peachy." 


Philip's  Home-Coming         113 

"I  ain't  gonter  set  fer  no  tintype.  Please 
don't  go  snappin'  no  likeness  er  me,  liT  Jo,'* 
pleaded  the  old  woman. 

"  Well,  it  might  bust  my  camera,"  laughed  Jo. 


Her  first  night  in  the  country!  The  first 
night  for  little  Rebecca  Taylor  spent  anywhere 
but  in  the  beloved  studio,  except  for  that  one 
night  on  the  sleeper.  Dr.  Price  had  recom- 
mended sleep  and  perfect  quiet.  Rebecca  had 
been  moved  to  the  room  that  had  been  her 
father's,  and  there  she  lay,  dozing  and  dreaming 
through  the  long  June  day.  Every  now  and 
then  Aunt  Testy  would  come,  bearing  a  tray  of 
delicious  food.  Rebecca  would  keep  her  eyes 
open  long  enough  to  eat  and  then  would  drop 
back  into  fitful  slumber. 

"Where  is  my  grandfather,  Aunt  Testy?" 
she  asked  when  the  dinner  tray  arrived,  laden 
with  food  the  like  of  which  the  little  studio  waif 
had  seldom  seen. 

"He  done  been  belt  up  down  yonder  to  the 
hub  fact'ry.  He  jes'  phomed  up  to  enquire 
arfter  you.  I  answered  it  myself  an'  I  could 
repo't  you  wa'  a  worryin'  down  right  smart 
nourishment." 

"I  should  say  I  am,"  laughed  Rebecca.     "I 

114 


Rebecca  Gets  Acquainted 

am  sleeping  and  eating  all  the  time.  I  love  this 
room  too.  To  think  of  my  father  having  slept 
in  this  self -same  spot!  What  kind  of  a  tree  is 
that  outside  my  window,  Aunt  Testy?" 

"That  there  am  a  holly  tree." 

"You  mean  Christmas  holly — the  kind  with 
red  berries  that  costs  fifty  cents  for  just  a  little 
branch  to  make  things  kind  of  cheerful  for 
Christmas?  Oh,  I'm  so  happy!" 

Aunt  Testy  smiled  a  comfortable,  fat  smile, 
but  at  the  same  time  wiped  a  little  tear  away 
with  the  corner  of  her  apron. 

"  Now  res*  yo'se'f  some  mo',  honey  baby,"  she 
said,  as  she  removed  the  tray. 

Again  the  heavy  lids  drooped  and  Rebecca 
slept  soundly.  The  next  time  Aunt  Testy  came 
in  with  more  food  she  still  slept  and  the  old 
woman  crept  out. 

"Sleep  an'  fergittin'  is  better'n  eatin'  an' 
rememberin',"  she  sagely  remarked. 

When  Major  Taylor  at  last  returned  from 
the  hub  factory  he  quickly  mounted  to  his 
granddaughter's  room.  It  was  a  chamber  he 
had  not  entered  for  many  years — not  since  his 
boy  had  occupied  it.  It  reminded  him  too 
poignantly  of  Tom.  Even  now  he  must  steel 
himself  to  be  able  to  cross  the  threshold.  He 
tapped  lightly  on  the  door.  There  was  no 


116  The  Shorn  Lamb 

response.  He  waited  a  moment  and  then  opened 
the  door  and  softly  entered.  The  room  was  so 
quiet  he  had  a  sudden  fear  that  the  child  might 
have  left.  But  no!  There  she  lay  on  his  Tom's 
bed.  She  looked  quite  different  from  the  girl 
who  had  stood  before  him  not  so  many  hours 
ago  and  defied  him.  The  strained,  excited  look 
had  left  the  little  face.  In  its  place  was  one  of 
perfect  peace. 

"Almost  as  though  she  had  died,*'  flashed 
through  Major  Taylor's  mind.  "  Thank  God, 
though,  for  the  color  on  cheeks  and  lips  and  that 
sweetly  taken  breath." 

Long  he  stood  and  gazed  at  her,  his  stern 
features  working  strangely  and  an  occasional 
tear  finding  its  way  unheeded  down  his  wrinkled 
cheeks.  He  longed  for  her  to  open  her  eyes  and 
once  more  smile  into  his  as  she  had  in  the  morn- 
ing after  inspecting  the  persons  gathered  around 
her  bed,  but  Nature  had  taken  matters  into  her 
own  hands  and  was  working  her  perfect  cure 
on  the  tired  child.  The  old  man  finally  crept 
out.  He  felt  happier  than  he  had  since  Tom 
left  home. 

Rebecca  slept  on  and  on.  Daylight  faded 
into  twilight,  twilight  melted  into  moonlight, 
and  still  she  slept.  The  Misses  Taylor  were 
sulking  because  of  this  interloper  that  had  come 


Rebecca  Gets  Acquainted 

into  their  well-ordered  lives,  and  when  those 
ladies  sulked,  they  sulked  in  silence.  Spotts- 
wood  was  singularly  reticent.  He  resented  the 
arrival  of  this  child,  whom  he  considered  a  fraud, 
and  he  wondered  at  his  astute  father's  accepting 
the  little  waif  as  his  grandchild. 

Major  Taylor,  in  his  endeavor  to  keep  the 
house  quiet  so  that  Rebecca  might  sleep,  made 
more  noise  than  all  the  rest  of  the  family  put 
together. 

"Heavens,  Spot!"  he  exploded  at  the  supper 
table,  "do  you  have  to  make  so  much  noise  eat- 
ing toast?  You  will  disturb  the  child." 

Spot  turned  red  and  gulped  some  water. 
The  sound  he  made  in  swallowing  called  forth 
another  remark  from  his  father. 

"  I  believe  you  are  trying  to  wake  her  up.  I 
never  saw  such  a  noisy  lot  of  people." 

The  sisters  looked  at  each  other  with  raised 
eyebrows  as  much  as  to  say  their  father  was 
evidently  slightly  demented.  Spot  hurriedly 
finished  his  supper  and  left  the  table.  Aunt 
Testy  moved  in  and  out  of  the  dining  room  with 
guarded  steps,  directing  Mandy,  her  assistant, 
with  hoarse  whispers. 

"Don't  rattle  them  knives  an*  forks!  Prop 
open  that  there  pantry  do'  less'n  you  kin  open 
it  'thout  fallin'  'ginst  it  ev'ry  time.  Looks  like 


118  The  Shorn  Lamb 

Marse  Bob  an'  me's  the  onlies'  ones  in  this  house 
what  air  tryin'  ter  keep  quiet." 

Even  the  noisy  endeavors  of  her  two  friends 
to  keep  quiet  did  not  awaken  Rebecca.  The 
•Misses  Taylor  retired  to  their  'bedchambers 
without  looking  in  on  the  stranger  occupying 
the  room  that  had  been  their  brother's.  Father 
and  son  sat  in  silence  on  the  vine-covered  porch. 
It  was  a  night  of  nights.  The  moon  was  up 
and  the  rolling,  grassy  lawn  with  its  great 
fringed  elm,  ash  and  oak  trees  was  flooded  with 
a  radiance  almost  unearthly  in  its  beauty.  The 
wonder  of  it  was  touching  the  hearts  of  both 
men,  but  a  certain  lack  of  sympathetic  under- 
standing kept  them  apart.  The  katydids  and 
tree  frogs  took  up  their  song  of  summer  and 
'way  off  by  the  river  a  whippoorwill  called 
persistently. 

Once  more  before  he  went  to  rest  Major 
Taylor  tiptoed  upstairs  into  Rebecca's  room. 
She  was  sleeping  like  an  infant.  The  moonlight 
lay  in  patches  on  the  floor  and  bed.  One  slen- 
der little  hand  was  in  its  path  and  for  a  moment 
the  old  man  fancied  he  could  detect  a  likeness 
between  that  hand  and  Tom's. 

"  Something  about  the  thumb  and  curve  of  the 
wrist,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  But  I  wish  she  did 
not  have  such  black  hair.  It  is  fine,  though,  as 


Rebecca  Gets  Acquainted 

fine  as  blond  hair,"  he  decided,  bending  over  her 
cautiously. 

The  moon  was  high  when  Rebecca  at  last 
opened  her  eyes.  She  thought  she  was  back  in 
the  studio  on  West  Tenth  Street.  There  the 
moon  used  to  shine  through  the  skylight  and 
make  bars  on  the  floor.  She  closed  her  eyes 
again  and  snuggled  down  comfortably  on  her 
pillow.  She  remembered  the  happenings  of  the 
last  days  as  in  a  dream.  It  was  all  a  dream 
surely,  her  stepfather's  illness,  her  leaving  the 
studio  and  everything.  At  any  rate,  now  she 
was  back  in  the  studio,  she  was  sure. 

But  what  was  that  strange  noise?  Not  the 
roar  of  New  York,  not  a  late  party  breaking 
up,  not  like  any  noise  she  had  ever  heard  before! 
It  seemed  to  the  child  like  the  deeply  taken 
breath  of  some  huge  creature,  a  breath  coming 
in  waves  and  at  intervals  prolonged  into  a  long 
drawn  sigh.  But  more  regular  than  this  breath- 
ing was  a  steady  beat,  beat.  It  must  be  the 
creature's  heart! 

Rebecca  was  terrified.  She  sat  up  in  bed  and 
suddenly  realized  she  was  not  in  the  studio. 
Before  she  could  collect  her  scattered  wits  the 
night  was  cut  by  a  shrill,  blood-curdling  screech. 

"The  giant  has  caught  somebody,"  was  her 
thought.  "Now  he  is  going  to  catch  me!"  She 


120  The  Shorn  Lamb 

lost  all  control  of  herself  and  screamed  aloud: 
"Daddy!  Daddy!  Save  me!" 

The  sound  of  her  own  voice  brought  her  to 
her  senses.  She  realized  that  she  was  not  in 
New  York,  that  her  stepfather  was  in  truth 
dead  and  she  was  in  a  strange  house  belonging 
to  hitherto  unknown  relations.  She  began  to 
sob. 

Somebody  was  coming  and  it  was  not  the 
monster,  because  he  was  out  of  doors  and  the 
person  who  was  coming  was  on  the  stairs.  She 
tried  vainly  to  hold  back  the  sobs. 

Then  Major  Taylor  appeared,  bearing  a 
lighted  candle.  He  had  been  reading  when  he 
had  heard  the  shrill  cry,  "Daddy!  Daddy! 
Save  me!" 

"What  is  it,  my  darling?"  The  old  man's 
voice  was  strangely  gentle. 

What  would  his  daughters  and  son  have 
thought  had  they  heard  his  tone  of  endearment 
and  seen  his  tender  expression  as  he  gathered 
the  trembling  child  to  his  hungry  heart? 

"What  has  frightened  you?" 

"Oh!  That  giant!  Listen,  can't  you  hear 
him  breathe?  And  his  heart  beats  so  loud.  A 
minute  ago  he  caught  something — I  think  it 
was  a  child — its  cry  was  so  pitiful!  I  didn't 
mean  to  scream  out  so  loud,  but,  sir,  I  thought 


Rebecca  Gets  Acquainted      121 

I  was  back  in  the  studio  and  Daddy  was  alive 
and  would  come  to  me." 

"You  mean  my  son,  Tom?"  hoarsely. 

"No,  no!  He  was  Father.  Daddy  was  the 
last  stepfather  I  had.  But  listen  a  minute  and 
you  can  hear  the  noise  that  scared  me  so." 

Rebecca  was  still  trembling,  but  her  sobs  had 
ceased. 

"  Why,  my  dear,  that  is  nothing  but  katydids 
and  tree  frogs  and  all  the  night  creatures.  Did 
you  never  hear  them  before?" 

"No,  sir!  They  dont  do  that  way  in  New 
York.  It  sounds  like  a  giant's  deep  breathing 
to  me.  And  listen,  only  listen  to  his  heart 
beats!" 

"And  that  is  the  hydraulic  ram  that  pumps 
the  water  up  from  the  branch  to  the  tank  out 
there  behind  the  house.  That  is  the  kind  of 
waterworks  we  have  at  Mill  House.  You  can 
go  to  see  it  to-morrow.  It  is  nothing  but  a 
simple  little  machine  that  the  water  makes  go 
and  it  works  the  pump." 

"Oh!  I  guess  you  think  I'm  more  of  a 
nuisance  than  ever.  I'm  so  sorry,  but  I  did  not 
know.  If  the  little  child  had  not  screamed  out 
I  would  not  have  let  go." 

"Little  child?"  Major  Taylor  could  not 
help  laughing,  although  he  held  Rebecca  closer 


122  The  Shorn  Lamb 

to  his  breast.  "You  poor  little  thing,  no  won- 
der you  were  scared.  That  was  just  a  screech 
owl.  I  heard  it  too  just  a  moment  before  I 
heard  you.  I  wonder  if  you  scared  the  little 
owl  as  badly  as  it  scared  you.  Listen!  There 
it  goes  again." 

Rebecca  shuddered  as  the  screech  owl  gave 
forth  another  of  its  weird  calls. 

"Is  it  a  great  big  thing?" 

"No,  just  a  tiny  little  owl  not  as  big  as  a 
new-born  kitten  and  looking  a  little  like  one. 
But  listen!  That  is  a  mockingbird."  A  sudden 
burst  of  music  drowned  all  the  other  noises  of 
the  night. 

"Oh,  Grandfather!  I  could  almost  die  of 
joy,"  Rebecca  cried,  as  the  song  died  out.  "I 
never  heard  a  mockingbird  before  in  all  my  life. 
I  didn't  know  they  sang  at  night.  And  now 
that  I  know  what  the  night  sounds  are  I'll  never 
be  afraid  again.  It  is  really  Mother  Nature 
breathing,  after  all.  I  don't  see  how  I  am  ever 
to  sleep  again  at  night — anyhow  not  when  the 
moon  is  shining.  There  are  so  many  things  to 
see  and  hear.  It  is  much  more  interesting  than 
daytime." 

"Tom,  your  father,  loved  the  night,  and  he 
and  I  used  to  sit  together  on  the  porch  and  listen 
to  the  katydids  and  tree  frogs.  He  loved  to 


Rebecca  Gets  Acquainted      123 

hear  the  first  bullfrogs  in  spring.  You  can  hear 
them  now,  down  in  the  marshes.  Listen!  This 
is  what  I  used  to  tell  Tom:  The  little  baby 
bullfrogs  say,  *  Can't  go  to  sleep!  Can't  go  to 
sleep ! '  and  the  mother  bullfrog  says,  '  Hush,  my 
dears!  Hush,  my  dears!'  and  the  big  father 
bullfrog  says,  'Spank  'em!  Spank  'em!" 
"Oh!  Did  you?  How  lovely!  Tell  me 


some  more." 


"The  tree  frogs  say,  'Who  cracked  the  ket- 
tle?' and  the  katydids  call  back,  'Katy  did! 
Katy  did ! '  and  they  get  to  fussing  among  them- 
selves and  some  of  them  say,  'Katy  didn't! 
Katy  didn't!'  and  then  way  down  in  the  edge 
of  the  wood  someone  calls  out  'Whip  poor  Will ! 
Whip  poor  Will!'" 

The  old  man  imitated  the  night  noises  with 
surprising  skill.  It  had  been  many  years  since 
he  had  attempted  it,  but  he  seemed  to  enjoy  it 
as  much  as  Rebecca. 

"And  now  you  must  go  back  to  sleep  because 
you  will  not  wake  up  in  time  to  hear  the  birds' 
chorus  in  the  early  morning  if  you  don't.  THey 
have  advertised  their  performance  to  take  place 
at  sun-up." 

The  wonders  of  the  night  had  entranced 
Rebecca,  but  the  delight  of  the  dawn  affected 
her,  as  she  told  her  grandfather  afterwards,  like 


124  The  Shorn  Lamb 

the  cello  notes  of  an  orchestra:  "Creepy  all  up 
and  down  my  backbone  and  my  throat  all  choky 
with  joy!" 

The  birds  outdid  themselves  for  her  benefit 
on  that  first  awakening  in  the  country.  She 
sprang  from  her  bed  and  leaned  so  far  out  of 
her  window  she  almost  fell  into  the  holly  tree. 
A  father  robin  and  a  father  thrush  were  offer- 
ing up  their  morning  hymn  of  praise  while  the 
wives  of  their  bosoms  were  busily  engaged  in 
trying  to  find  enough  breakfast  for  the  gaping 
mouths  of  their  respective  families.  A  song 
sparrow  had  perched  himself  on  the  open  blind 
of  the  parlor  and  was  pouring  forth  a  volume 
of  melody. 

To  Rebecca  it  was  all  so  new  and  wonderful 
that  she  forgot  all  about  a  possible  breakfast 
and  the  necessary  bath  and  clothes  until  Mandy 
knocked  on  her  door,  sent  by  Aunt  Testy  to 
remind  her.  Then  a  grand  scramble  ensued. 
The  ugly  black  waist,  so  many  sizes  too  large, 
was  reluctantly  donned. 

"Mourning  seems  so  out  of  place  in  such  a 
world  as  this,"  she  sighed,  "but  maybe  Mrs. 
O'Shea  knows  best." 

'The  dark  curls  would  not  come  untangled,  no 
matter  how  much  she  brushed  and  combed,  and 
as  a  warning  gong  informed  her  that  breakfast 


Rebecca  Gets  Acquainted       125 

was  ready,  she  caught  her  hair  back  with  a  hair- 
pin and  ran  downstairs. 

The  aunts  and  Spottswood  had  that  minute 
seated  themselves  at  the  table  -as  Rebecca  came 
running  in  the  room. 

"Good  morning,  everybody!"  she  cried  gaily. 
"I  was  so  afraid  I'd  be  late  to  breakfast  I 
almost  broke  my  neck  hurrying.  Where  is  my 
grandfather?" 

"My  father  has  gone  early  to  the  hub  fac- 
tory." said  Aunt  Evelyn  with  a  manner  so  chilly 
that  Rebecca  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  There 
was  a  slight  accent  on  "my  father"  that  con- 
veyed a  subtle  suggestion  that  Rebecca's  grand- 
father and  Evelyn's  father  were  not  one  and 
the  same  person. 

Rebecca  had  thought,  of  course,  that  when 
her  grandfather  accepted  her  as  his  own  flesh 
and  blood  the  others  would  do  the  same.  If  she 
belonged  to  them  they  would  naturally  love  her. 
and  she  would  try  to  love  them.  Surely,  her 
Aunt  Evelyn  was  not  feeling  well.  A  pain 
somewhere  would  account  for  that  vinegary 
expression.  The  morning  was  too  lovely  and 
she  was  too  hungry  to  bother  much  about  moods. 

"Oh,  I  had  the  most  heavenly  rest!  Such  a 
bed!  Such  delicious  eats,  whenever  I  could  wake 
up  to  know  about  it!  Such  —  " 


126  The  Shorn  Lamb 

Her  effusions  were  stopped  short  by  a  cold 
and  disapproving  "Hush!"  from  Aunt  Myra. 
It  was  as  though  someone  had  shot  a  skylark 
in  its  upward  flight.  Rebecca  was  silenced. 
She  bowed  her  head  in  mortification,  not  know- 
ing that  the  others  at  the  table  also  were  bowing 
theirs,  until  she  heard  Aunt  Evelyn  in  devout 
tones  asking  that  the  Creator  might  bless  the 
food  to  their  use  and  them  to  His  service. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  faltered  when 
Aunt  Evelyn  finished  and  the  business  of  eat- 
ing was  begun.  "  I  have  never  said  my  prayers 
at  the  table  and — and  did  not  know." 

"Do  not  be  sacrilegious,"  commanded  Aunt 
Evelyn. 

"I  did  not  mean  — "  But  what  she  did  not 
mean  was  of  no  importance  to  her  relatives  and 
Rebecca's  remarks  trailed  off  into  empty  space. 

Breakfast  progressed  in  solemn  silence.  The 
child  was  big-eyed  over  the  quantity  and  variety 
of  food.  Accustomed  to  a  breakfast  of  choco- 
late and  rolls  and  in  affluent  days  maybe  an 
orange  or  half  of  a  grapefruit,  this  old  Virginia 
breakfast  seemed  to  her  like  a  feast.  There 
were  strawberries  and  cream,  roe-herring,  ham 
and  eggs,  fried  potatoes,  fried  apples,  batter- 
bread,  and  then  when  all  was  over  seemingly, 
stacks  of  waffles  made  their  appearance. 


Rebecca  Gets  Acquainted      127 

Forgetting  that  talking  was  evidently  not  in 
favor  with  her  relatives  at  meal  time,  Rebecca 
suddenly  burst  out  with:  "It  reminds  me  of 
the  ads  in  the  subway.  I  used  to  sit  and  look 
at  the  ham  and  eggs  and  waffles  and  things  until 
I'd  get  so  hungry  I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I 
know  it  isn't  high  art  to  paint  fried  eggs  so  you 
can  almost  smell  them,  but  it  is  very  clever  of 
the  artist.  Don't  you  think  so,  Uncle  Spot?" 

The  young  man  looked  up  in  astonishment, 
but  not  at  her.  What  business  did  this  little 
person  have  calling  him  Uncle  Spot?  She  did 
not  wait  for  a  reply. 

"Now,  I  don't  think  much  of  the  way  they 
do  the  waffles.  They  seem  so  stiff  and  uncom- 
promising, with  no  feeling  in  them.  I  am  sure 
they  would  never  melt  the  butter  as  Aunt 
Testy's  do,  but  maybe  the  poor  artist  did  not 
have  a  good  model.  Perhaps  he  never  had  an 
Aunt  Testy  in  his  life." 

"I  want  the  phaeton  and  Dolly  this  morning, 
Spottswood,"  Miss  Evelyn  said,  paying  not  the 
least  attention  to  Rebecca's  gay  little  attempt 
at  conversation.  "I  have  an  appointment  with 
Miss  Wood  to  try  on  my  blue  taffeta." 

"I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Miss  Myra.  "I 
am  anxious  to  match  some  wool  over  at  the 
Court  House." 


128  The  Shorn  Lamb 

"I  thought  a  court  house  was  a  place  where 
they  tried  criminals  and  kept  deeds  and  things," 
broke  in  Rebecca.  Nobody  explained  to  her 
that  in  Virginia  the  county  seat  was  always 
called  the  Court  House. 

Breakfast  being  over,  the  family  arose  and 
left  the  table  without  saying  a  word  to  the  for- 
lorn little  girl. 

"Gee!  But  they  are  dumb!"  said  Rebecca 
to  herself.  "  I  wonder  if  they  are  silent  because 
they  have  nothing  to  say  or  just  because  they 
don't  want  to  talk  before  me.  I'll  burst  if  I 
don't  let  out  some  of  the  talk  that  is  in  me.  Not 
one  member  of  the  family  addressed  a  remark  to 
me  except  Aunt  Myra,  and  all  she  said  was 
'Hush!'  and  'Don't  be  sacrilegious.'  I  hope 
it'll  be  different  when  Grandfather  is  at  home." 

"Aunt  Testy,"  she  asked,  as  the  fat  cook 
waddled  in  to  superintend  Mandy  in  the  clear- 
ing of  the  breakfast  table,  "where  does  Aunt 
Pearly  Gates  live?  I  thought  I'd  go  see  her 
this  morning  and  make  her  acquaintance." 

'You-all's  right,  honey  chil',  'but  fer  the 
land's  sake  don't  go  clost  ter  that  there  ram 
down  in  the  meadow.  It  ain't  no  trus'worthy 
animule." 

Rebecca  smiled.  She  had  often  heard  of  the 
superstition  of  the  darkeys,  but  this  was  too 


Rebecca  Gets  Acquainted      129 

ridiculous,  for  Aunt  Testy  to  be  afraid  of  an 
innocent  piece  of  machinery  that  faithfully 
pumped  water  day  and  night  for  use  at  Mill 
House. 

"All  right,"  she  answered  gaily,  "I'll  take  a 
stick  after  it  if  it  offers  me  any  insult." 

"Ain't  it  the  truf?  Well,  honey  baby,  you 
jes'  keep  right  on  down  the  lane  yonder  an' 
when  you  git  pretty  nigh  the  river  you'll  see  a 
kinder  gap  in  the  wire  fence  wif  tater  sacks 
wropped  'round  two  wires  so  folks  kin  scratch 
through  'thout  leaving  a  piece  er  meat  on  none 
er  the  barbs.  They's  a  clay  path  there  goin' 
through  the  meadow  that  will  take  you  spang 
onto  Aunt  Pearly  Gates'  cabin.  The  path 
goes  right  on  through  Rocky  Ford  and  right 
smart  chancet  er  water  air  in  the  stream,  but  I 
'low  your  legs  are  long  an'  light  enough  fer  you 
to  step  acrost  from  rock  ter  rock.  You'd  bes' 
put  on  yo'  hat,  case  the  sun  am  tolable  hot." 


Chapter  9 
A  RELUCTANT  KNIGHT  ERRANT 

Rebecca  had  not  unpacked  her  modest  ward- 
robe, so  she  donned  her  mourning  bonnet,  the 
only  headgear  available,  and  since  she  was  to 
pay  a  ceremonial  visit  to  Aunt  Pearly  Gates  it 
seemed  quite  appropriate  that  she  should  wear 
this  bonnet.  A  weird  little  figure  she  made, 
as  she  trudged  happily  down  the  lane.  She  had 
seen  the  ladies  of  the  family  drive  off  in  the 
phaeton  to  the  mysterious  court  house.  Spotts- 
wood  had  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the 
barn.  She  had  watched  him  light  his  pipe  on 
the  front  porch,  and  then,  with  a  whistle  to 
Doctor,  his  dog,  he  had  walked  off  with  long 
swinging  steps.  He  had  looked  so  kindly  on  his 
dog  that  the  child  thought  how  splendid  it  would 
be  if  she  had  been  born  a  nice  black  and  white 
doggy  with  glossy  fur  that  wasn't  long  enough 
to  get  tangled  and  great  patient  eyes  and  no 
desire  to  talk  and  a  heart  that  was  satisfied  with 
an  occasional  pat  from  his  master,  with  a  kind 
word  thrown  in  now  and  then. 

"I  don't  care,  my  Grandfather  will  talk  to 

130 


A  Reluctant  Knight  Errant     131 

me,  and  what  is  better,  he  will  listen,"  she  mused 
as  she  followed  the  path  in  the  lane.  "  I  don't 
mind  the  aunts  not  liking  me  so  much  as  Uncle 
Spot,  but  I  do  wish  he'd  loosen  up  a  bit.  But 
they  needn't  think  I'm  going  to  do  all  the  polite 
trying.  If  they  don't  like  me  they  can  just 
lump  me.  I'm  not  going  to  be  any  more  miser- 
able than  I  can  help." 

Having  decided  to  get  as  much  enjoyment 
out  of  life  as  possible,  Rebecca  tried  to  put  all 
thought  of  her  reluctant  relations  out  of  mind. 
Certainly  there  were  enough  delights  in  the 
country  to  keep  her  fairly  contented  even 
though  the  haughty  aunts  did  make  themselves 
disagreeable  and  the  handsome  uncle  refused 
to  speak  to  or  even  to  look  at  her. 

A  rabbit  ran  across  her  path,  his  little  white 
tuft  of  a  tail  shining  in  the  sun.  She  found  a 
patch  of  belated  wild  strawberries  which  she 
picked  and  devoured  greedily.  With  difficulty 
she  tore  herself  away  from  a  tree  of  black  heart 
cherries  that  hung  its  luscious  fruit  invitingly 
over  the  fence.  She  heard  a  bobwhite  call  from 
a  thicket  beyond,  and  farther  down  the  lane 
there  was  a  great  whirr  as  a  covey  of  speckled 
birds  rose  in  the  air. 

"  Something  happenin'  every  minute,  just  like 
the  movies!"  she  cried  delightedly.  "Listen! 


132  The  Shorn  Lamb 

here's  the  ram  a-ramming.  It  doesn't  make  so 
much  noise  in  the  day-time  as  it  does  at  night. 
I  must  see  it,  too.  Grandfather  said  I  must. 
Funny,  old  Aunt  Testy  telling  me  it  was 
dangerous." 

The  gap  in  the  barbed  wire  fence  was  found 
as  Aunt  Testy  had  directed.  Rebecca  crawled 
through  the  wrapped  place  and  followed  the 
pink  path  across  the  meadow.  The  noise  of  the 
ram  increased  as  she  approached  the  bubbling, 
tumbling  little  stream  that  cut  through  the  green 
pasture. 

"Heavens,  what  a  darling  little  brook!"  she 
cried  as  the  path  curved  around  the  hill  and 
suddenly  descended  to  the  stream,  where  it  dived 
under,  as  Rebecca  expressed  it,  only  to  come 
up  on  the  other  side  as  dry  and  pink  as  ever. 
Willows  bordered  the  brook.  Under  a  shelving 
bank  was  the  home  of  the  hydraulic  ram,  a  low, 
box-like  house  about  four  feet  high  with  a  slop- 
ing roof  of  rough  boards  designed  merely  to 
protect  the  machinery  from  the  grazing  cattle. 
From  its  interior  came  the  steady  thud,  thud  of 
the  ram. 

"It  sounds  like  a  spirit  in  prison,"  thought 
Rebecca  as  she  approached  the  little  house.  "I 
wonder  if  you  want  to  get  out,"  she  whispered 
through  a  knot  hole  in  the  side.  It  seemed  to 


A  Reluctant  Knight  Errant      133 

her  as  though  the  noise  of  the  machinery  grew 
louder  and  the  water  splashed  more  vigorously. 

"You  haven't  any  windows  and  you  haven't 
any  doors — but  I  see  you  have  a  roof  with 
hinges !  Maybe  I  can  open  it."  With  a  mighty 
effort  she  raised  the  roof,  slamming  it  wide  open, 
and  peeped  down  into  the  dank  interior. 

"Well,  you  are  very  small  to  make  so  much 
noise  and  do  so  much  work.  I  like  your  house, 
with  its  sides  all  covered  with  moss,  but  I  must 
say  you  need  a  good  airing.  I  guess  I'll  leave 
your  roof  open  for  some  sun  to  get  in  on  you 
while  I  go  call  on  Aunt  Pearly  Gates.  Make 
the  most  of  it,  Mr.  Ram,  because  I  shall  have 
tv)  shut  you  up  again  on  my  way  home.  I  believe 
I'll  call  you  Faithful  Heart.  I  do  think  poor 
Aunt  Testy  is  real  foolish  to  be  afraid  of  you; 
ungrateful,  too,  because  if  it  were  not  for  you 
she  might  have  to  come  'way  down  to  the  spring 
and  carry  up  buckets  of  water  on  her  head  as 
I  have  read  the  darkeys  in  the  South  used  to 
do.  I  love  you,  my  Faithful  Heart;  but  good- 
bye for  awhile.  I'll  come  back  soon  and  shut 
your  skylight  down." 

Rebecca  tripped  along  the  clay  path.  Her 
heart  was  light.  She  hummed  a  little  tune,  try- 
ing to  fit  some  lines  of  poetry  to  it. 

"Oh,  what  is  so  rare,  rare,  rare,  as  a  day  in 


134  The  Shorn  Lamb 

June,  June,  June?"  she  trilled.  "I  wonder  if 
I  am  going  to  be  a  singer  or  a  poet  or  if  I  am 
going  to  be  a  farmer's  wife  and  raise  turkeys. 
I  might  be  all  three — that  is,  if  I  keep  on  living 
in  the  country.  Look  at  the  precious  lamb 
coming  down  the  path  to  meet  me!" 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  was  a  flock  of  sheep. 
They  were  spread  out  as  though  on  dress  parade 
and  peered  over  the  brow  of  the  hill  at  the  girl 
as  she  advanced  up  the  path.  Their  leader  had 
separated  himself  from  the  flock  and  slowly  and 
sedately  came  to  meet  Rebecca. 

"Lam'by,  lamby!"  she  called  when  about  a 
hundred  yards  off.  "  You  are  mighty  sweet  and 
woolly.  Do  you  lie  down  in  these  beautiful 
green  pastures,  and  are  you  led  beside  these 
still  waters?  Surely  one  could  fear  no  evil  in 
such  a  spot.  I  think  it  is  sweet  of  you  to  come 
to  meet  me." 

The  little  girl  held  out  her  hand  and  hurried 
along  the  path.  As  she  came  closer  to  the  ad- 
vancing animal  she  was  astonished  to  see  how 
much  larger  it  was  than  it  had  at  first  seemed. 

"  You  are  no  spring  lamb,  that's  certain,"  said 
Rebecca,  "but  you  are  mighty  handsome,  any- 
how. I  don't  think  you  have  a  very  pretty 
face,"  she  decided  as  the  creature  drew  nearer 
and  its  curled  horns  and  evil  eyes  revealed 


A  Reluctant  Knight  Errant      135 

themselves  to  the  gaze  of  the  city-bred  child. 

"Baa!  Baa!"  The  answer  came  with  a 
harsh  note,  not  at  all  lamb-like,  and  then  with 
a  sudden  rush  the  animal  plunged  down  the  hill, 
with  head  lowered. 

Rebecca  jumped  aside.  What  must  she  do? 
She  could  not  run  up  hill,  because  at  the  top 
there  awaited  her  a  whole  flock  of  "  lambs,"  who 
might  be  even  more  ferocious  than  the  crea- 
ture with  the  curling  horns  that  had  attempted 
to  butt  her  down.  The  ram,  angered  by  his 
failure,  stopped  in  his  downward  lunge  and 
turned  about,  looking  at  Rebecca  with  such  an 
evil  expression  that  she  wondered  that  she  had 
ever  called  him  "Lamby."  She  was  rooted  to 
the  ground.  Her  assailant  began  sidling  up 
the  hill.  He  knew  enough  about  butting  to 
realize  he  could  indulge  in  his  favorite  pastime 
better  if  he  had  the  advantage  of  being  above 
his  victim. 

Rebecca's  heart  was  beating  so  rapidly  she 
was  almost  suif  ocated.  She  instinctively  pressed 
her  hand  to  her  side.  Suddenly  she  remembered 
Faithful  Heart  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill.  There 
was  her  refuge!  She  began  to  run.  Aunt 
Testy  had  spoken  truly  when  she  had  said  her 
legs  were  long  and  light;  they  might  have  been 
wings,  so  quickly  did  they  carry  the  frightened 


136  The  Shorn  Lamb 

child  down  the  hill.  The  ram  was  taken  by 
surprise.  For  a  moment  he  stood  still  and  then 
started  after  her. 

In  Rebecca's  hasty  flight  the  mourning  bonnet 
slid  from  her  head.  It  proved  a  sop  to  Cerberus. 
For  several  seconds  the  ram  gave  up  the  chase 
and  satisfied  himself  by  pawing  the  bonnet  to 
pulp.  It  gave  Rebecca  time  to  tumble  over 
the  wall  into  the  house  occupied  by  the  hydraulic 
ram,  where  she  crouched  trembling,  thankful  she 
had  left  the  top  open.  She  couldn't  decide  which 
heart — hers  or  Faithful  Heart's — beat  the 
louder.  The  ram  was  enraged  now,  and  besides, 
he  must  show  his  flock,  which  had  started  to  run 
down  the  hill,  what  a  truly  great  person  he  was. 
He  had  never  liked  the  noise  that  came  from 
that  closed  box  and  now  that  the  little  creature 
whom  he  had  marked  for  destruction  had  taken 
refuge  there,  the  thud,  thud  that  came  forth 
was  more  distasteful  than  ever  to  his  majesty. 
He  gathered  himself  together  for  a  mighty 
rush. 

"  Blim ! "  he  came  against  the  side  of  Rebecca's 
refuge.  The  stout  oak  boards  gave  him  as  good 
as  he  sent  and  he  rolled  over  into  the  water. 

Rebecca  thought  she  heard  someone  laughing. 
Through  the  knot  hole  she  had  viewed  the  over- 
throw of  her  enemy,  and  had  almost  laughed 


A  Reluctant  Knight  Errant      137 

herself,  but  she  was  sure  she  had  not  given  way 
to  audible  mirth.  She  had  a  feeling  she  had 
better  not  laugh  too  soon.  The  ram  had  scram- 
bled to  his  :feet  and  was  backing  off  with  the 
intention  of  returning  once  more  to  the  fray. 

Click!  Rebecca  was  sure  now  she  could  hear 
something  besides  the  steady  beating  of  Faith- 
ful Heart  and  the  rushing  of  the  water.  Again 
the  ram  charged  bravely,  but  the  little  house  was 
built  on  a  rock  foundation  and  the  boards  were 
of  oak  and  once  more  the  animal  met  with  such 
stout  resistance  that  he  rolled  over  into  the 
stream. 

Click!    "Ha!  Ha!" 

Rebecca  was  sure,  now,  that  she  heard  a 
laugh.  What  the  click  was  she  could  not  divine, 
but,  taking  advantage  of  the  prostration  of  her 
pursuer,  she  stood  up  and  peeped  over  the  top 
of  the  shed. 

" Hallo!  Who  are  you,  anyhow?  So  you're 
what  the  old  critter  was  after!  Just  hold  still 
a  minute,  will  you?" 

She  found  herself  confronted  by  a  boy  of 
about  her  own  age.  He  was  a  bonny  fellow,  but 
his  manner  was  rough  and  Rebecca  instinctively 
drew  back  from  him. 

'You  needn't  be  scared  of  me.  I'm  just 
gonter  take  your  picture.  I  already  got  the  ol' 


138  The  Shorn  Lamb 

ram  laying  in  the  water  and  I  cotched  him  on 
the  fly,  too,  and  now  I'd  like  to  have  you 
lookin'  like  the  devil  was  after  you,  the  way 
you  did  when  you  first  peeped  over  the  wall." 

So,  the  click  was  a  camera  I 

" Ain't  it  a  beaut?  My  brother  brought  it  to 
me  from  New  York.  I'm  a  gonter  learn  how 
to  develop  the  fillums  myself  and  print  'em  an* 
mount  'em  an'  all." 

'  Ye-es,  but  mind  out !  Here  comes  the  sheep 
after  you!"  screamed  Rebecca.  The  ram  had 
picked  himself  up  and  was  directing  his  atten- 
tions towards  the  new  comer. 

'Yes  he  is!"  was  the  boy's  scornful  rejoinder. 
"  I'll  bus*  open  his  fool  head  with  a  rock.  Here, 
hold  my  camera!" 

The  ram  stood  with  lowering  head,  his  evil 
eye  taking  in  the  situation.  He  saw  the  boy 
stoop  and  select  from  the  bed  of  the  stream  sev- 
eral stones.  Had  Goliath  of  Gath  shown  as 
much  discretion  as  this  pugnacious  ram  he  might 
have  lived  to  fight  again.  The  animal  uttered  a 
meek  little  "Baa,"  turned  tail  and  made  a  dig- 
nified exit  up  the  pink  path  to  where  his  admir- 
ing females  stood  midway  up  the  hill. 

Rebecca  laughed  and  looked  at  the  boy  with 
more  admiration  than  she  had  felt  at  first, 

"Aren't  you  afraid  of  him?" 


A  Reluctant  Knight  Errant      139 

"That  ol'  ram!  Naw!  He  can't  hurt  a 
flea!  All  you  have  to  do  is  shake  a  stick  at  him." 

"  He  would  have  killed  me  if  I  hadn't  jumped 
into  the  house  of  Faithful  Heart." 

"Is  that  what  you  call  that  there  en-jine?" 

''  Yes.  But  won't  you  tell  me  your  name  so  I 
can  thank  you  for  saving  my  life?" 

Rebecca  had  begun  to  feel  like  the  heroine  of 
a  romance  and  now  that  the  hateful  ram  had 
taken  himself  off  she  was  enjoying  the  experi- 
ence hugely.  "I  am  Rebecca  Taylor." 

"My  name's  Jo  Boiling." 

"Not  really!  Why,  then  you  must  be  the 
brother  of  my  first  friend,  Mr.  Philip  Boiling! 
But  you  couldn't  be." 

"  I'd  like  to  know  why  I  couldn't  be.  I  just 
am.  What  makes  you  say  I  couldn't  be?  I 
reckon  girls  are  funny  things,  anyhow." 

"Perhaps  we  are,  but  I'd  be  much  obliged  if 
you  would  help  me  out  of  this  house." 

"I  won't  help  you  out  until  you  tell  me  why 
you  think  I  can't  be  no  brother  to  Philip." 

'You  have  given  two  good  reasons  in  what 
you  have  just  said,"  teased  Rebecca. 

"Pooh!    You  ain't  got  no  reason." 

"Another  good  reason!" 

"Aw,  quit  yer  kiddin'!  If  you  don't  tell  me 
I'll  shut  you  in  the  box,"  he  threatened,  taking 


140  The  Shorn  Lamb 

hold  of  the  door  and  raising  it  slightly. 

"Please  don't,  because  I'm  on  the  way  to 
making  a  call  and  I  could  never  get  out  if  you 
shut  me  up  here  with  Faithful  Heart,  and  the 
old  sheep  might  come  back  and  butt  me  over," 
pleaded  Rebecca. 

"Well,  then  tell  me,"  insisted  Jo. 

"If  you  must  know,  you  must.  In  the  first 
place,  Mr.  Philip  Boiling's  brother  would  have 
taken  off  his  hat  when  he  addressed  a  lady." 

"Where  is  the  lady  at?"  asked  Joe  scorn- 
fully. 

"He  would  never  have  said:  'Where  is  the 
lady  at?  but:  'Where  is  the  lady?'  Mr.  Philip 
Boiling's  brother  would  not  threaten  a  lady, 
even  if  the  lady  happened  to  be  only  a  little 
girl.  He  wanted  to  give  up  his  lower  berth 
to  me  on  the  train  just  exactly  as  though  I  had 
been  an  old,  old  person." 

"Yes,  he  did  — not!" 

"Mr.  Philip  Boiling's  brother  wouldn't  say: 
'That  there  en-jine,'  but  just  'That  engine.' 
He  wouldn't  say  "Aint  got  no'  under  any  cir- 
cumstances." 

"Aw,  I  reckon  you're  right  sissified." 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  am  or  not,  but  I 
know  I  want  to  get  out  of  this  place  and  can't 
do  it." 


A  Reluctant  Knight  Errant      141 

"How  did  you  git  in?  What  you  can  git  into 
you  can  git  out  of." 

"  I  could  never  have  got  in  if  I  had  not  been 
so  frightened.  I  got  in  by  myself  to  keep  the 
old  sheep  from  butting  me  in.  You  promised 
to  help  me  out  if  I  told  you  why  you  couldn't 
be  Mr.  Philip  Boiling's  brother." 

"You  ain't  —  I  mean  you  haven't  —  given  a 
single  good  reason." 

"Well,  Mr.  Philip  Boiling's  brother  wouldn't 
say  '  git '  for  '  get.'  In  fact,  Mr.  Philip  Boiling 
is  an  elegant  gentleman." 

"  Humph ! "  The  hoy  caught  hold  of  the  side 
of  the  house  and  shook  it  viciously. 

"And  Mr.  Philip  Boiling's  finger  nails  are 
clean  and  well  kept  and  his  manners  are  kind 
and  gentle,  and  —  " 

"Well,  ain't  —  aren't  you  gonter  git — get 
—  out  of  this  to-day?  Here  I  am  waiting  to 
help  you,"  the  boy  retorted  sullenly.  He  held 
out  his  hands. 

"Put  your  toe  in  a  crack  and  kinder  climb  a 
little  and  I  can  pull  you  out,"  he  suggested. 

Rebecca  got  out  with  surprising  ease. 

"I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Jo.  I  be- 
lieve now  you  might  be  Mr.  Philip  Boiling's 
brother,  after  all.  I  am  trying  to  go  call  on 
Aunt  Pearly  Gates.  Could  you  come  a  little 


142  The  Shorn  Lamb 

way  with  me  and  shoo  off  the  old  sheep  if  she 
comes  near  me?" 

"  Sheep !  That's  a  ram.  All  you  gotter  do  is 
to  take  a  stick  along.  That  ol'  coward  wouldn't 
do  nothing — anything — to  you  if  you  show 
him  a  stick  or  a  rock.  But  I  reckon  I'll  go 
along  with  you.  I  ain't — haven't — got  noth- 
ing— anything — to  do,  and  I  was  on  my  way 
to  Aunt  Pearly  Gates's  myself,  anyhow.  So 
come  along!" 

"I'm  afraid  the  sheep — ram — has  done  for 
my  bonnet,"  sighed  Rebecca  as  she  ruefully 
picked  up  the  shapeless  bit  of  millinery.  "  I'm 
almost  glad,  because  now  even  Mrs.  O'Shea 
couldn't  think  it  was  showing  respect  to  Daddy 
for  me  to  wear  it." 

"Let  me  make  you  a  hat  out  of  sycamore 
leaves;  the  sun  will  fair  bake  your  brains,"  said 
Jo.  He  jumped  up  and  caught  the  low-hanging 
branch  of  a  plane  tree  that  grew  near  the 
stream,  plucked  a  few  of  the  broad  leaves  and 
deftly  fashioned  a  hat  for  the  girl,  fastening 
the  parts  with  twigs. 

"How  lovely!"  crooned  Rebecca.  "Now  111 
trim  it  with  daisies  and  be  as  grand  as  one  could 
wish."  She  put  it  on  and  looked  at  Jo  demurely. 

"'Taint  so  bad  —  I  mean  it  isn't  so  bad.  But 
your  dress  is  mighty  black." 


A  Reluctant  Knight  Errant     143 

"Isn't  it?  You  see  I'm  in  mourning  for  my 
dear,  latest  and  best  stepfather.  But  I  don't 
think  it  would  be  disrespectful  for  me  to  deco- 
rate all  over  with  buttercups.  It  would  be  kind 
of  like  putting  flowers  on  Daddy's  grave." 

Rebecca  fashioned  chains  of  daisies,  which 
she  hung  around  her  neck  and  waist.  Butter- 
cups she  put  in  buttonholes  and  belt. 

"Now!  Ho,  for  Aunt  Pearly  Gates!"  she 
cried.  "Isn't  it  funny  how  depressing"  mourn- 
ing is?  Now  I  am  furbished  up  a  bit  with  some 
color  I  feel  like  dancing." 

She  pirouetted  in  front  of  Jo  until  he  was 
dizzy.  "If  you'd  a  done  that  to  the  old  ram 
he'd  a  scooted  for  sure,"  laughed  the  boy. 

They  found  Aunt  Pearly  Gates  expecting 
them. 

"I  'lowed  you'd  be  a  comin'  along  sometime 
ter-day  ter  tell  me  all  'bout  Mr.  Philip's  a 
comin'  home  an'  what  he  brung  you  from  up 
yonder,"  she  said  to  Jo,  "an'  I  wa'  mos'  con- 
fident that  lil'  Miss  Beck  baby'd  be  findin'  her 
way  down  ter  old  Pearly  Gates  as  soon  as  she 
could  git  rested  up.  New  Testament  come  down 
here  las'  night  a  tellin'  me  all  about  you  arrivin* 
up  ter  Mill  House.  I  say:  Praise  the  Lawd! 
It's  one  great  day  f  er  the  f ambly  that  'brings  a 
chiP  er  Marse  Tom's  ter  light." 


144  The  Shorn  Lamb 

The  old  woman  was  propped  up  on  snowy 
pillows  in  a  great  four-posted  bed.  Her  ca'bin 
was  as  clean  as  clean  could  be,  it  being  the  pride 
and  pleasure  of  her  children  and  grandchildren 
to  keep  everything  in  perfect  order  for  the  bed- 
ridden Aunt  Pearly  Gates.  She  lived  alone 
with  her  faithful  Si,  but  was  visited  daily  by 
members  of  her  family  who  attended  to  her  few 
wants.  There  she  lay,  year  in  and  year  out, 
knitting  and  tatting  and  receiving  her  visitors 
with  kindliness  and  cheer,  listening  to  the  tales 
of  happiness  and  sorrow  poured  into  her  sympa- 
thetic ears  by  old  and  young,  colored  and  white. 

She  looked  keenly  but  kindly  at  Rebecca, 
smiling  at  her  garlands  of  daisies. 

"  So  you  air  Marse  Tom's  In"  gal.  You  don't 
favor  him  none  in  looks  'cept'n  he  wa'  a  great 
hand  to  play  act,  but  'pearances  ain't  eve'ything. 
If  you  air  got  his  kind  ways  and  laughin'  heart 
that'll  mean  mo'n  jes'  his  outsides.  'Member, 
chil',  when  you  wants  a  frien',  ol'  Pearly  Gates 
am  always  here  in  the  baid  ready  ter  sarve  you." 

Then  she  must  listen  to  Jo's  account  of  his 
brother's  return  and  look  at  the  new  camera. 

"  Philip's  coming  to  see  you  soon,  he  says,  but 
he's  got  a  lot  to  do.  Gee,  I  wouldn't  work  like 
him,  not  for  nothing.  I  say  let  Ol'  Abe  and 
Young  Abe  and  Little  Abe  do  the  work  the 


A  Reluctant  Knight  Errant     145 

way  they  been  a  doing  it.  Philip's  going  to  try 
and  buck  up  aginst  Mam'  Peachy's  gang  and 
he  might  just  as  well  give  up  'fore  he  starts. 
Mam'  Peachy  ain't  gonter  let  nobody — any- 
body"— looking  up  quickly  at  Rebecca  and 
correcting  himself  with  a  flush  —  "anybody  get 
ahead  of  her  and  her  crowd." 

A  shadow  passed  over  Aunt  Pearly  Gates' 
good  old  face. 

"  I  hope  he  won't  git  in  no  trouble,"  she  said 
solemnly.  "  Tell  him  I  says  ter  go  moughty  keer- 
ful.  Ol'  Mam'  Peachy  air  a  tricky  pusson." 


The  task  of  adjusting  herself  to  country  life 
was  an  all-engrossing  one  to  Rebecca.  She  real- 
ized the  importance  of  trying,  if  not  to  please 
the  aunts,  at  least  to  get  along  without  anger- 
ing them;  but  more  important  than  anything 
else  was  to  find  out  everything  connected  with 
the  creatures  on  the  farm.  She  soon  knew  all 
of  the  animals  on  the  place,  and,  if  one  happened 
not  to  have  a  name,  she  immediately  christened 
it.  She  made  friends  with  the  colored  people, 
who  adored  her. 

The  little  girl  longed  to  follow  Spottswood, 
as  he  went  about  his  daily  business,  but  his  cold 
manner  held  her  back.  Her  aunts  were  equally 
distant,  albeit  they  made  a  ladylike  show  of 
politeness  to  the  little  waif.  They  spoke  often  of 
filial  duty  compelling  them  to  respect  the  wishes 
of  their  father  in  regard  to  his  "  so-called  grand- 
child." Evelyn  remembered  her  in  her  prayers 
night  and  morning  and  Myra  undertook  to  teach 
her  to  crochet,  each  lady  thereby  feeling  that 

146 


Charms  and  Pictures          147 

she  was  discharging  her  full  and  Christian  duty 
to  the  child. 

To  be  sure,  they  laid  down  certain  rules  of 
conduct  for  Rebecca  which  they  endeavored  to 
enforce.  She  must  come  to  meals  on  time;  she 
must  wear  a  sunbonnet ;  she  must  learn  the  cate- 
chism; she  must  say  "Yes,  ma'm,"  and  "No, 
ma'm,"  "Yes,  sir"  and  "No,  sir,"  when  older 
persons  questioned  her;  she  must  never  loll  in 
her  chair,  but  sit  bolt  upright  as  became  one 
who  aspired  to  become  a  gentlewoman ;  she  must 
master  the  difference  in  pronunciation  be- 
tween to  and  too  if  she  wished  to  be  considered 
a  Virginian  or  even  the  descendant  of  one. 
Every  Virginian  worthy  of  consideration  must 
know  that  t-o-o  was  pronounced  two,  and  t-o 
was  pronounced  tow. 

There  were  many  other  petty  rules,  and 
Rebecca  found  them  all  difficult  to  keep.  To 
be  on  time  at  meals  was  the  most  difficult  of  all 
and  the  one  rule  about  which  the  aunts  were  the 
most  particular.  Meals  had  always  been 
uncertain  affairs  in  the  studio  on  West  Tenth 
Street.  There  they  ate  when  they  were  hun- 
gry. This  thing  of  three  meals,  sitting  down 
solemnly  to  a  table;  making  a  rite  of  breakfast, 
dinner  and  supper,  was  irksome  as  well  as  amus- 
ing to  the  little  creature,  strayed  from  Bohemia. 


148  The  Shorn  Lamb 

In  spite  of  the  pleasure  she  took  in  the  plenti- 
ful, wholesome  food  and  Aunt  Testy's  wonderful 
cooking,  Rebecca  often  longed  for  the  one  privi- 
lege of  crackers  and  tea,  curled  up  on  the  divan, 
while  she  read  thrilling  stories  recommended  by 
Daddy,  and  where  the  only  formality  was  blow- 
ing the  crumbs  away. 

Evelyn  and  Myra  were  not  inclined  to  cor- 
rect Rebecca  in  their  father's  presence,  but  they 
never  forgot  to  point  out  the  error  of  her  ways 
when  they  were  alone  with  her.  For  herself, 
the  child  made  it  a  point  to  be  left  alone  with 
them  as  seldom  as  possible.  They  highly  dis- 
approved of  her  intimacy  with  the  colored  per- 
sons on  the  farm,  but  Major  Taylor  vetoed  their 
objections  and  openly  declared  that  his  grand- 
daughter was  to  see  as  much  of  Aunt  Pearly 
Gates  as  she  desired,  and  he  himself  took  her  to 
the  mill  and  put  her  in  the  especial  care  of  old 
Si  Johnson.  There  she  spent  many  happy 
hours,  listening  to  the  splash  of  the  mill  wheel 
and  the  hum  of  the  simple  machinery,  with  Brer 
Johnson  expounding  the  scriptures  the  while. 

All  of  her  frets  and  worries  Rebecca  took  to 
Aunt  Pearly  Gates.  And  to  every  childish 
problem  the  old  woman  gave  earnest  attention, 
doing  all  in  her  power  to  help  the  little  orphan 
over  the  rough  places.  A  day  never  passed  that 


Charms  and  Pictures          149 

Rebecca  did  not  visit  the  cabin.  She  often  met 
Jo  Boiling  there.  Sometimes  she  found  him 
waiting  for  her  at  the  ford.  She  knew  he  was 
waiting  for  her,  although  the  boy  always  pre- 
tended to  be  much  astonished  that  she  should 
be  coming  that  way  just  when  he  happened  to 
be  sitting  on  the  roof  of  Faithful  Heart's  house. 
He  would  cross  the  little  river  by  means  of  a 
huge  sycamore  tree  that  had  fallen  across  it  not 
far  from  the  mouth  of  the  stream  that  worked 
the  hydraulic  ram.  Sometimes  he  would  climb  a 
willow  tree,  hiding  from  her  until  she  was  in 
midstream,  jumping  from  stone  to  stone,  and 
then  he  would  suddenly  call  out  like  a  screech 
owl,  and  be  highly  delighted  if  Rebecca  should 
start  with  fright  and  slip  into  the  shallow  water, 
wetting  her  little  shoes. 

Jo  taught  her  many  things  besides  how  to 
bluff  a  cowardly  ram;  lore  that  is  almost 
instinctire  knowledge  with  children  born  in  the 
country.  She  drank  in  the  information  greedily, 
taking  in  all  Jo  told  her  as  shining  truth.  Some- 
times his  biology  was  a  little  sketchy,  but 
always  it  was  wonderful  to  the  city-bred  child. 

"Does  a  springkeeper  make  the  water  pure 
and  clear,  Jo?"  she  asked  wonderingly,  as  he 
showed  her  a  strange-looking,  crawfish-like 
creature. 


150  The  Shorn  Lamb 

"Yes,  indeed,  and  we'd  have  all  kinds  of 
typhoid  fever  and  things  if  it  wasn't  for  these 
here  —  these  springkeepers,"  declared  the  boy. 
Rebecca  continued  the  policy  adopted  at  their 
first  meeting,  that  of  correcting  his  uncouth 
English. 

"It  seems  like  a  fairy  to  me — one  that  has 
been  changed  into  a  hideous  form  by  some  old 
witch  and  can  only  resume  its  beautiful  form 
after  having  purified  gallons  and  gallons  of 
water,"  she  said. 

Jo  laughed.  "  I  reckon  there  ain't  much  fairy 
about  this  old  bug." 

"Ain't,  Jo?" 

"Well,  isn't,  then!" 

"Jo,  do  you  mind  when  I  pick  on  you?  I'll 
stop  it  if  you  do." 

"No,  I  kinder  like  it.  I  don't  'low  Betsy  to 
do  it.  I  reckon  it's  because  she's  got  a  right 
to." 

"  Maybe  that's  the  reason  I  hate  to  have  Aunt 
Evelyn  and  Aunt  Myra  correcting  me  so  much. 
Perhaps  they  have  a  right  to.  'They  certainly 
do  exercise  their  rights  pretty  freely.  I  wonder 
if  they  want  me  to  be  like  them!  Now  I  pick  on 
you  so  you  will  get  to  be  more  like  Mr.  Philip." 

"  That's  the  reason  I  don't  mind  so  much.  I 
tell  you  my  brother  Philip  is  some  humdinger  I 


Charms  and  Pictures          151 

Things  are  sure  different  since  he  got  back.  I 
believe  old  Mam'  Peachy  is  skairt  of  him.  Betsy 
gave  her  some  kind  of  dope  about  Philip's  being 
a  better  conjerer  than  what  she  is,  and  she's 
got  the  old  woman  a  guessing.  Betsy  told  me 
to  tell  you  she's  making  some  gingerbread  and 
if  you  come  over  she'll  have  it  just  aJbout  baked 
and  we  can  mix  up  some  lemonade.  I've  got 
your  photograph  done,  too.  It's  the  one  I  took 
the  time  the  ol'  ram  got  you  going.  Philip 
helped  me  develop  it." 

"Oh,  goody!  Of  course  I'll  come.  The  aunts 
have  gone  calling,  so  I  won't  have  to  ask  them. 
They'd  say  no  if  they  were  home,  so,  thank 
goodness,  they  are  off." 

They  crossed  the  river  on  the  coon  bridge, 
Rebecca  removing  her  shoes  and  stockings  for 
the  difficult  feat  of  making  a  safe  passage  on 
the  slippery  sycamore  tree. 

"Grip  the  bark  with  your  toe  nails,"  warned 
Jo.  "  I  let  mine  grow  long  a  purpose." 

"  I'd  love  to  go  barefoot  all  the  time,"  sighed 
Rebecca,  "  but  the  aunts  were  so  shocked  when  I 
suggested  it  anyone  would  think  I  had  already 
committed  a  great  sin.  They  talked  about  birth 
and  breeding  until  grandfather  and  I  got  bored 
stiff.  He  made  them  mad  by  saying  he  guessed 
they  were  born  barefoot  for  that  matter,  and  as 


152  The  Shorn  Lamb 

for  breeding,  they  must  have  been  bred  from 
Eve  and  she  certainly  is  always  pictured  as 
barefooted.  Anyhow,  it  hurts  my  feet  terribly 
to  walk  on  rough  places  without  my  shoes  and 
stockings.  I  don't  see  how  you  do  it." 

"I  just  scrooch  up  my  toes  this  way  and  the 
stubble  and  pebbles  and  things  don't  touch  the 
tender  part  o'  my  soles.  I  hate  shoes.  I  reckon 
I'll  have  to  wear  'em  all  the  time  when  I  get  to 
be  a  man." 

Rebecca  was  not  often  allowed  to  visit  at  The 
Hedges.  The  aunts  disapproved  of  her  associ- 
ation with  the  Boilings  even  more  than  with  the 
negroes,  but  when  she  appealed  to  her  grand- 
father for  the  privilege  of  an  occasional  call  on 
her  friends  he  consented,  not  that  he  was  desir- 
ous of  an  intimacy  between  the  families,  but  he 
could  not  but  acknowledge  the  kindness  shown 
Rebecca  by  Philip  Boiling,  and  also  he  took  a 
certain  pleasure  in  treading  on  the  aristocratic 
toes  of  his  lady  daughters. 

So  Rebecca  was  allowed  an  occasional  trip 
across  the  river.  She  took  a  few  more  than  her 
aunts  were  aware  of,  but  she  always  confessed 
to  her  grandfather  when  her  desire  for  compan- 
ionship became  too  strong  for  her,  and  he  laugh- 
ingly absolved  her  for  sneaking  off  without  the 
knowledge  of  her  feminine  mentors. 


Charms  and  Pictures          153 

She  was  ever  a  welcome  guest  at  The  Hedges. 
Elizabeth  liked  the  child  for  herself,  and  would 
have  been  kind  to  her  because  of  Philip's  inter- 
est in  her  and  because  she  could  not  but  see  the 
good  influence  the  little  girl  was  having  on  Jo, 
who  before  the  advent  of  Rebecca  had  become 
more  and  more  difficult  to  manage,  rough  and 
coarse  in  his  manner  of  speech  and  with  a  ten- 
dency to  untidiness  that  Elizabeth  dreaded  more 
than  anything  else.  Betsy,  in  spite  of  several 
years  difference  in  their  ages,  found  the  little 
"New  York  waif  interesting  and  congenial.  She 
liked  to  hear  her  talk  about  the  wonders-  of  the 
city,  her  life  in  the  studio,  visits  to  Coney  Island 
and  the  Bronx  Zoo ;  but  also  above  all  did  Betsy 
like  to  listen  to  her  little  friend  when  she  waxed 
enthusiastic  concerning  the  manly  beauty  of  her 
Uncle  Spottswood. 

Even  Aunt  Peachy  was  polite  to  Rebecca,  but 
with  a  cringing  and  unctuous  manner  that  her 
mistress  and  Betsy  well  understood  meant  she 
hated  the  child  as  she  did  all  of  the  Taylors  and 
those  connected  with  Mill  House. 

Rebecca  was  fascinated  by  the  strange  ugli- 
ness of  Aunt  Peachy.  She  had  no  fear  of  her, 
but  felt  instinctively  that  she  was  evil. 

"An*  how  is  the  pretty  lil*  missy  ter-day?" 
whined  the  old  woman.  "  I  'lowed  we  wa*  gonter 


154  The  Shorn  Lamb 

have  callers  when  I  seen  that  there  Betsy 
a  stirrin'  up  sumpen.  Is  all  yo'  folks  well? " 

"Grandfather  was  complaining  of  a  little 
rheumatism,"  answered  Rebecca. 

"Too  bad!  Too  bad! "  said  Aunt  Peachy,  but 
there  was  a  malevolent  gleam  in  her  rat-like 
eyes.  "  He  must  be  a  gittin*  ol'.  I  had  a  touch 
er  rheumatiz  myself  goin'  on  thirty  years  ago, 
but  I  done  outgrowed  it.  I  mus'  fix  up  a  poul- 
tice fer  the  po*  ol'  man." 

"Oh,  thank  you  very  much,  but  I  doubt 
Grandfather's  using  it.  He  is  so  opposed  to 
medicines  and  liniments." 

"  This  here  is  a  charm  poultice  I's  gonter  sen* 
him,"  insisted  Aunt  Peachy. 

"Oh,  you  old  crazy,"  broke  in  Jo.  "Major 
Taylor  ain't  gonter  touch  your  bad-smelling 
stuff  with  a  ten-foot  pole." 

"But  it  19  very  kind  of  you,"  insisted  Re- 
becca politely,  looking  at  Jo  reproachfully. 
"Where  are  the  photographs  you  promised  to 
show  me,  Jo?" 

"Here  they  are,  an*  I  printed  off  two  for 
you,  two  of  every  kind.  This  is  the  way  you 
looked  when  you  peeped  over  the  wall  at  me. 
The  light  wasn't  so  strong,  but  it  is  pretty 
good  anyhow." 

**Le'  me  see!    Le*  me  see!"  whimpered  Aunt 


Charms  and  Pictures 

Peachy,  who  was  never  satisfied  unless  she  was 
included  in  everything.  "Is  that  there  the 
pretty  111*  missy?  Laws-a-mussy,  but  I'd  be 
proud  ter  own  one  er  these  here  tintypes." 

"Would  you,  really?"  asked  Rebecca.  "If 
Jo  gives  me  two  I  will  give  you  one  of  them. 
That  is,  if  he  will  print  me  another  for  Aunt 
Pearly  Gates.  There  is  nobody  else  who  would 
care  much  for  a  picture  of  me,  nobody  in  Vir- 
ginia, at  least." 

"Thank  yer!  Thank  yer!"  muttered  the  old 
woman,  clutching  the  little  print  eagerly  and 
poring  over  it  with  half-closed  eyes.  "  I'll  keep 
good  keer  of  it,  never  fear." 

"Well,  don't  try  any  hoodoo  monkey  shines 
with  it,"  commanded  Jo. 

"Me!  Laws-a-mussy,  liF  Jo,  you  done  fergit 
I*s  a  chu'ch  mimber  in  good  standin'.  I  ain't 
up  ter  no  sich  tricks." 

"Well,  how  about  that  charm  poultice,  then?" 
parried  Jo,  with  a  grin. 

"I  wa'  jes'  a  foolin'  'bout  that.  My  poul- 
tices air  jes'  made  er  good  fresh  yarbs.  I  gonter 
git  a  frame  fer  this  here  tintype." 

The  old  woman  clasped  the  picture  tightly 
and  glided  from  the  kitchen,  leering  at  Rebecca 
as  she  went. 

*  Isn't  she  a  funny  old  thing"  Rebecca  said 


156  The  Shorn  Lamb 

to  Betsy,  who  was  taking  the  pans  of  ginger- 
bread from  the  oven. 

"  Yes,  she  is  funny,  but  I  reckon  she  is  too 
old  to  do  any  harm  now,"  laughed  Betsy.  "  She 
worries  Mother  and  Philip  to  death,  but  I  never 
bother  my  head  about  her.  Philip  has  got  the 
upper  hand  of  her  now  and  sometimes  I  almost 
feel  sorry  for  the  poor  old  rat." 


Chapter  11 
MAGIC  — BLACK  AND  WHITE 

Philip  Boiling's  summer  had  been  one  of 
unceasing  labor,  mental  and  physical.  He  felt 
that  if  he  could  not  assert  his  supremacy  on 
his  father's  farm  and  make  Old  Abe  understand 
that  he  was  master  he  would  deserve  to  be  ruled 
by  the  blacks,  having  been  weighed  in  the  bal- 
ance and  found  wanting.  If  his  superior  men- 
tality and  education  could  not  make  him  the 
master  then  it  was  proof  that  he  lacked  charac- 
ter. Philip's  boyhood  had  been  one  of  meekly 
giving  up  and  doing  what  his  father  com- 
manded. It  had  been  the  only  way  to  keep  the 
peace,  and  peace  for  his  mother  had  been  the 
one  idea.  She  had  always  entreated  him  to 
avoid  quarrels,  as  she  feared1  the  vindictiveness 
of  Aunt  Peachy  and  her  influence  on  Rolfe 
Boiling.  She  still  feared  it,  and  begged  her 
son  not  to  be  rash  in  his  treatment  of  Aunt 
Peachy's  son,  Old  Abe,  and  his  swarms  of  lazy, 
thieving  offspring,  headed  by  Young  Abe  and 
Little  Abe. 

Philip  smiled  at  his  mother's  fears. 

157 


158  The  Shorn  Lamb 

"What  could  a  crazy  old  negress  do  to  me?" 
he  asked.  "  She  is  so  feeble  she  can  hardly  get 
out  of  her  chair." 

"  She  is  not  so  feeble  as  she  pretends,  and  she 
can  make  Old  Abe  and  his  kind  do  her  bidding." 

"  Well,  so  can  I,"  said  Philip  quietly.  "How 
many  children  are  there  over  in  the  quarters?" 

"  Goodness  only  knows !  It  looks  like  an  ant 
hill." 

"Well,  every  child  there  is  going  to  school 
next  term  if  I  have  to  haul  them  myself." 

"School!  Why,  Philip,  they  are  bad  enough 
as  it  is,  and  school  would  make  them  unbear- 
able," cried  Elizabeth.  "Are  you  in  earnest?" 

"Dead  earnest,  Mother  dear!  You  felt  an 
education  was  important  for  me,  and  I  feel  it  is 
even  more  important  for  the  colored  people. 
Look  at  them  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  all 
of  Uncle  Si's  kin  and  Aunt  Testy's  children, 
all  of  the  people  connected  with  Mill  House  and 
the  ones  who  work  in  the  hub  factory.  They 
are  a  fine  lot,  good  workmen  and  good  citizens. 
Major  Taylor  has  seen  to  it  that  they  were 
taught  something  at  school.  His  father  and 
mother  before  him  gave  some  education  to  their 
slaves.  Look  at  the  contrast  between  our  col- 
ored people  and  his!" 

Philip     might     have     added     a  comparison 


Magic — Black  and  White 

between  the  master  of  The  Hedges  and  the 
master  of  Mill  House,  but  he  refrained. 

"We  won't  say  anything  about  it  until  a  few 
weeks  before  school  starts  in  the  fall,  but  I  am 
going  to  get  busy  with  the  County  Superinten- 
dent and  see  to  it  that  what  law  for  compulsory 
education  exists  in  Virginia  shall  be  enforced 
right  here  on  our  farm." 

Old  Abe  was  too  old  to  educate,  but  he  was 
not  too  old  to  be  taught  something  and  the  day 
after  Philip  got  home  Abe  was  to  learn  that 
matters  were  not  going  to  be  quite  so  easy  for 
him  and  his  lazy  sons  and"  grandsons  as  they  had 
been  for  the  many  years  since  Rolfe  Boiling  got 
so  fat  he  had  turned  over  the  management  of 
the  farm  to  him. 

Old  Abe's  attitude  at  first  was  one  of  amuse- 
ment towards  his  master's  young  son,  who  had 
been  so  busy  learning  how  to  read  that  he  had 
let  the  farm  get  out  of  his  hands. 

"I  'low  you  is  done  forgot  what  liF  you 
know'd  'bout  f armin',  Phup,"  he  said  slyly,  as  he 
and  Philip  started  to  make  the  rounds  of  the 
farm  on  a  tour  of  inspection. 

Philip  looked  keenly  at  the  stalwart  old  man 
at  his  side.  Surely,  he  had  come  of  a  powerful 
race.  He  was  over  seventy,  but  as  straight  as 
an  arrow,  with  not  an  ounce  of  superfluous 


160  The  Shorn  Lamb 

flesh  on  his  huge  bones.  He  walked  a  little  un- 
steadily, as  though  he  had  had  a  little  too  much 
drink.  His  hair  and  beard  were  grizzled  and 
his  eyes  were  growing  dim,  but  otherwise  he 
looked  as  Philip  remembered  him  when  he  was  a 
child  and  Old  Abe  used  to  let  him  ride  the  horse 
while  he  plowed.  Old  Abe  had  always  been 
kind  to  him,  although  in  a  furtive  way  as  if  he 
did  not  want  anyone  to  see  him.  Perhaps  he 
felt  that  his  mother,  Aunt  Peachy,  would  have 
disapproved  of  his  showing  any  attention  to  the 
boy,  whom  she  always  had  resented  as  a  person 
who  was  rivaling  her  "baby." 

"No,  Uncle  Abe,  I  haven't  forgotten  a  thing 
you  taught  me  while  I  have  been  off  trying  to 
get  an  education,  not  a  thing,  and  what's  more, 
I  have  been  learning  more  things  about  farm- 
ing—  things  I  am  going  to  introduce  here  at 
The  Hedges.  You  are  going  to  help  me,  too, 
aren't  you,  Uncle  Abe?" 

"Well,  I  ain't  no  hand  ter  be  takin'  up  new 
notions,"  hesitated  Abe.  "  I'm  a  gonter  run  this 
farm  lak  I  been  a  runnin'  it  an'  lak  Marse 
Rolfe  runned  it,  an'  his  paw  befo'  him.  You 
might  take  a  lil'  piece  er  Ian'  down  in  the  bot- 
tom ter  'speriment  with,"  he  suggested,  as 
though  Philip  had  been  a  child  who  wanted  to 
play  at  gardening. 


Magic — Black  and  White       161 

Philip  laughed.  "  Oh,  I  don't  ask  you  to  run 
it  differently.  I  am  going  to  do  the  running 
and  you  will  take  orders  from  me.  Of  course, 
my  father  had  to  turn  things  over  to  you  while 
I  was  away,  but  now  I  am  home,  naturally  I 
will  take  charge."  Philip  looked  Abe  squarely 
in  the  eye  and  the  old  man  endeavored  to  return 
his  stare,  but  his  eyes  finally  fell  before  Philip's 
clear  gaze. 

"I  am  going  to  ask  you,  Uncle  Abe,  to  call 
me  Mr.  Philip.  It  makes  no  real  difference  to 
me  where  you  are  concerned,  but  I  feel  that  it 
will  make  a  difference  to  the  hands  on  the  farm. 
I  have  no  idea  of  allowing  any  familiarity  from 
them  and  I  am  sure  if  you  set  the  pace  for 
politeness  that  they  will  follow  you.  It  will 
make  things  easier  all  around  if  you  begin 
immediately  to  call  me  Mr.  Philip." 

'  Ye-ye-yes,  sah ! "  hesitated  Old  Abe. 

"Not  only  are  you  to  speak  to  me  respect- 
fully, but  you 'are  to  speak  of  me  respectfully. 
This  is  important  and  I  am  going  to  trust  you 
to  attend  to  it.  Tell  Young  Abe  and  Little  Abe 
and  any  of  the  others  who  expect  to  work  on  the 
farm  at  any  time,  I  am  not  going  to  put  up 
with  any  impertinence." 

"  Sho',  Mr.  Phup,  th'ain't  nobody  gonter  sarse 
you  nor  none  er  the  Bollin's.  We'd  have  my 


162  The  Shorn  Lamb 

mammy  ter  fight  if  any  er  us  chiDuns  tuck  ter 
sassin'  a  Bollin',"  whined  the  old  man. 

Philip  laughed.  "Of  course  you  won't.  I 
am  just  telling  you,  you  won't.  As  for  Aunt 
Peachy:  I'd  be  very  glad  if  you  tell  her  exactly 
what  I  have  told  you." 

"Fo'  Gawd,  Phup  — Mr.  Phup,  Mam' 
Peachy'd  lay  me  out  if  I  carried  any  sich  tale 
ter  her.  You  think  I's  been  a  bossin'  this  here 
fawm,  but  I  ain't  never  bossed  none,  Mr.  Phup, 
no  mo'n  yo'  paw  ever  bossed  it,  er  yo*  grampaw 
befo'  him.  Mam'  Peachy  air  a  been  bossin'  The 
Hedges  fer  goin'  on  a  hundred  years.  We  takes 
our  orders  fum  her.  To  be  sho'  she  gits  Marse 
Rolfe  ter  han'  it  on  ter  us,  but  she  air  the 
maindes'  pusson  ter  be  reckoned  with." 

"Well,  after  this  you  take  your  orders  from 
me."  Philip  said  no  more  on  the  subject,  but 
continued  his  inspection  of  the  farm.  He  car- 
ried a  pencil  and  tablet  with  him  and  carefully 
noted  the  things  that  needed  his  immediate 
attention.  The  fences  were  in  a  deplorable  con- 
dition and  the  outhouses  were  crying  out  for 
new  shingles  or  to  be  propped  up.  The  silo 
was  on  the  slant  of  the  Leaning  Tower  of  Pisa. 
Neither  paint  nor  whitewash  had  been  applied 
to  any  of  the  buildings  for  at  least  twenty  years. 
Stables  and  barns  were  dirty.  Farm  imple- 


Magic — Black  and  White       163 

ments  lay  in  fence  corners,  or  even  in  the  middle 
of  fields,  where  horses  had  been  unhitched  at  the 
sound  of  the  dinner  horn,  and  that  particular 
bit  of  plowing  or  cultivating  never  taken  up 
again.  All  of  these  things  Philip  noted  in  a 
systematic  way. 

There  was  shed  room  enough  for  any  and  all 
farming  implements,  but  the  natural  shiftless- 
ness  of  the  darkeys,  born  on  the  Boiling  place 
with  generations  of  shiftless  masters,  had  pre- 
vented their  ever  seeing  the  necessity  of  order 
and  care  in  such  matters.  Philip  had  forgotten 
how  absolutely  careless  the  running  of  the  farm 
was.  It  seemed  strange  to  him  that  anybody  as 
parsimonious  as  was  his  father  should  be  negli- 
gent in  such  things  —  things  that  represented 
money.  Rolfe  Boiling's  one  idea  had  been  to 
save  cash,  but  his  natural  slothfulness  always 
had  been  his  handicap.  He  could  drive  a  hard 
bargain  in  a  trade  and  demand  a  huge  rate 
of  interest  when  someone  sought  a  loan.  This 
lending  money  was  always  done  as  a  neighbor 
and  kept  very  quiet.  If  the  rate  of  interest 
was  illegal  the  authorities  never  were  informed 
of  it. 

The  farm  had  been  mismanaged  until  it  was 
only  by  luck  that  it  furnished  food  for  the 
family;  what  with  the  overworking  of  certain 


164  The  Shorn  Lamb 

parts  of  the  land  and  the  useless  lying  fallow 
of  other  parts,  and  the  constant  drain  of  the 
swarm  of  lazy  darkeys  who  inhabited  the  quar- 
ters, working  when  it  pleased  them  and  thieving 
at  all  times. 

"Why  do  you  leave  the  harrows  out  in  the 
weather  to  rust?"  Philip  asked  Old  Abe  as 
they  stumbled  over  one  in  a  field.  It  had  been 
there  long  enough  to  be  covered  with  morning 
glory  vines  and  grass  had  grown  over  it  in  thick 
mats. 

"'Taint'  gwine  ter  hurt  the  harrow,"  the  old 
man  explained,  "it's  gwine  ter  do  it  good.  The 
timber  in  all  them  boughten  impelments  needs 
weatherin'  an'  what  rus'  fawms  on  the  pints  er 
the  harrow  jes'  preserves  'em.  That  there  rus' 
is  jes'  as  good  ter  preserve  them  harrow  pints 
as  a  coat  er  paint." 

Philip  smiled  and  Old  Abe  congratulated 
himself  that  he  was  able  to  impart  some  wisdom 
to  the  young  man  who  had  taken  such  a  supe- 
rior tone  with  him.  The  old  man  was  rather 
pleased  that  Mam*  Peachy  was  to  be  dethroned. 
He  had  been  under  the  thumb  of  his  powerful 
mother  for  so  long  that  it  would  be  pleasant  to 
know  that  no  longer  was  she  to  be  the  boss  of 
The  Hedges.  He  was  desperately  afraid  of  his 
mother,  but  she  could  hardly  blame  this  affair 


Magic — Black  and  White      165 

on  him.  If  she  was  going  to  work  any  of  her 
charms  she  would  naturally  work  them  on  the 
yoi^ng  master. 

Suppose  it  was  so  —  what  Betsy  had  said 
about  her  brother's  being  able  to  work  better 
charms  than  Mam'  Peachy!  The  rumor  had 
gone  forth  that  she  had  said  so.  Someone  had 
overheard  it  and  it  had  spread  like  wildfire  over 
the  place.  For  his  part  Old  Abe  had  never 
heard  of  a  white  man's  working  charms,  but 
then,  white  folks  were  mighty  peculiar.  Philip 
—  Mr.  Philip — had  been  away  four  years  and 
he  had  come  back  with  a  mighty  independent 
way  with  him.  He  didn't  seem  to  be  in  the  least 
afraid  of  the  dread  Mam*  Peachy.  He  even 
wanted  her  to  know  what  he  intended  to  do 
about  the  management  of  the  farm.  Was  he 
so  scornful  of  her  and  her  charms  because  he 
could  do  better  ones?  The  old  man  scratched 
his  head  and  gazed  at  his  young  master.  Per- 
haps it  would  be  safer  to  throw  in  his  lot  with 
the  stronger. 

"How  many  hands  does  my  father  employ 
regularly?"  Philip  asked. 

They  had  climbed  to  the  top  of  a  hill  which 
was  planted  in  corn,  following  a  path  by  the 
fence.  Below  the  hill  stretched  flat,  grassy  fields 
which  bordered  the  river. 


166  The  Shorn  Lamb 

"Well,  in  co'se  I's  reglar  an'  Young  Abe  an' 
Lil'  Abe;  then  thar's  Jim  Strong,  what  was 
kinder  married  ter  my  gal  Sukey,  an'  his  son 
Jeemes.  That's  all  what  we  has  ter  say  on  the 
steady  pay  roll." 

"What    are    they    all    doing    right    now- 
to-day?" 

"Well,  Young  Abe  air  kinder  po'ly  with  a 
tooth  what  done  been  botherin'  him  off  an'  on 
fer  nigh  on  ter  thirty  years.  I  'member  it  wa' 
befo'  I  jined  the  chu'ch  he  had  the  fust  begin- 
nin'  er  pangs  an*  he  wan't  mo'n  about  twenty- 
five  then.  He  air  the  skeerdes*  nigger  I  ever 
seed  'bout  that  there  tooth.  He  done  swo'  up 
an'  down  'tain't  the  same  tooth,  but  I  tell  you, 
Phup  —  Mr.  Phup  —  Young  Abe  ain't  ter  say 
right  bright  'bout  tellin'  the  diffunce  in  his 
teeth." 

"What  is  he  doing  for  it?" 

"Mam*  Peachy  done  fixed  up  a  cha'm  poul- 
tice, but  his  wife  done  'lowed  she's  gonter  fetch 
him  over  ter  the  blacksmith  an'  have  it  pulled. 
She's  wo'  out  with  his  gruntin'  an*  groanin'." 

"Where  are  the  other  hands?"  asked  Philip, 
patiently. 

"Well,  Lil'  Abe  an*  Jeemes  air  done  tuck 
the  clay-bank  mule  over  ter  the  Co't  House  ter 
git  him  shoed." 


Magic — Black  and  White       167 

"Why  did  both  of  them  go?" 

"  Laws-a-mussy,  Mr.  Phup!  I  cyarn't  trus* 
them  ter  go  all  by  theyselves.  They's  good 
enough  boys  on  the  whole,  but  they's  better 
when  they's  got  one  another  ter  spy  on  them." 

"And  Jim  Strong?    Where  is  he?" 

"He's  a  seekin'  an'  th'ain't  no  wuck  in  him 
till  he  comes  through  or  don't  come  through. 
My  Sukey  done  tol'  him  time  an'  agin  ter  wait 
till  Big  Meetin'  time,  but  the  notion  tuck  him 
an*  he  went  ter  seekin'  las'  week.  He  ain't 
never  gonter  come  through.  I  done  seed  him 
try  too  many  times  ter  take  no  stock  in  that 
nigger's  ever  landin'  in  the  mo'ners'  bench.  I 
tell  you,  Mr.  Phup,  he  got  too  big  er  mouth 
ever  to  go  through  the  appinted  time  'thout  ever 
bus'in'  out  larfin'.  I  done  seed  him  go  up  till 
the  very  las'  hour  an'  then  sompen  done  tickle 
him  an'  he  open  up  he  big  mouth  an*  holler  an' 
larf  hisself  back  in  ter  sin." 

Philip  laughed  outright.  He  remembered  of 
old  the  desperate  "seeking"  of  the  grinning  Jim 
Strong  and  the  impossibility  of  his  "coming 
through  "  because  of  the  fact  that  laugh  he  must 
and  one  laugh  while  "seeking"  put  one  out  of 
the  running. 

"Well,  you  tell  Jim  to  report  to  me,  and  I 
will  give  him  some  ploughing  to  do  to  keep  him 


168  The  Shorn  Lamb 

so  busy  he  won't  have  time  to  laugh.  I  can't 
see  any  reason  for  his  neglecting  his  work  while 
he  is  trying  to  be  good." 

"  Xo,  sir!  'Tain't  no  reason  'tall  -  - 'cept'n 
when  Jim  air  a-ploughin'  he  jes'  nachully  cusses 
an'  cussin'  air  mos'  as  bad  as  carpin'  to  keep  a 
po'  sinner  fum  the  Heavenly  throne.  Them  there 
mules  ain't  got  no  'ligion  er  they  own  an'  they 
won't  gee  nor  haw  'thout  a  few  cuss  words  is 
so  ter  speak  put  in  fer  'couragement." 

"  All  right,  then,  far  be  it  from  me  to  dis- 
courage Jim's  seeking !  There  is  plenty  of  work 
besides  ploughing.  You  send  him  to  me!" 

Philip's  whirlwind  method  of  going  to  work 
almost  took  Rolfe  Boiling  off  his  feet.  After 
all,  it  did  not  make  much  difference  to  him,  just 
so  he  was  left  in  peace  to  sleep  and  eat  and 
drink.  It  was  rather  pleasant  not  to  have  Old 
Abe  come  bothering  him  about  the  farm.  Philip 
had  tact  enough  to  let  his  father  alone  and  any 
trouble  he  had  with  the  hands  he  kept  to  him- 
self —  and  he  had  trouble  enough  to  discourage 
a  less  patient  man. 

Many  and  baffling  were  the  obstacles  to  over- 
come. He  recognized  Aunt  Peachy's  cunning 
hand  in  much  that  happened,  but  he  quietly  and 
intelligently  downed  each  trouble  that  arose. 
First,  he  made  the  darkeys  on  the  place  respect 


Magic — Black  and  White      169 

him,  by  showing  kindly  sympathy  with  them  in 
any  sickness  or  trouble  that  came  to  them.  To 
be  sure,  he  insisted  upon  a  full  day's  work  for 
full  pay  and  called  them  to  account  sharply  for 
time  stolen  from  their  work.  He  was  rather 
astonished  to  find  how  easy  it  was  to  gain  their 
allegiance  and  to  overcome  their  feeling  of 
superstitious  loyalty  to  Mam'  Peachy.  What 
she  commanded  was  no  longer  looked  upon  as 
law,  to  be  obeyed  willy-nilly.  Old  Abe  had 
given  up  going  to  his  mother  for  orders,  and  the 
younger  generations  kept  away  from  her  as 
much  as  possible.  Her  room,  which  was  in  the 
L  behind  the  kitchen,  was  not  besieged  by  old 
and  young  in  search  of  charms  for  ailments  as 
had  been  the  case  before  Mr.  Philip  returned. 

Young  Abe's  toothache  had  been  the  cru- 
cial test  for  the  potency  of  the  new  regime  at 
The  Hedges.  He  had  already  given  Mam' 
Peachy 's  charm  poultice  a  fair  trial,  and  when 
the  young  master  had  kindly  asked  to  look  at 
the  tooth  and  had  immediately  injected  some- 
thing into  the  gum  that  sent  a  pleasing  numb- 
ness through  the  suffering  jaw,  and  then  with 
no  more  ado  than  pulling  out  a  splinter  had 
deftly  extracted  the  offending  molar,  absolutely 
without  pain,  Young  Abe  was  sure  Mr.  Philip 
was  a  better  charm  worker  than  Aunt  Peachy. 


170  The  Shorn  Lamb 

The  next  thing  that  happened  firmly  estab- 
lished Philip's  supremacy  in  the  minds  of  the 
colored  contingent.  It  was  the  custom  at  The 
Hedges  to  cure  great  quantities  of  meat — much 
more  than  was  needed  by  the  family — because 
it  was  a  well-known  fact  that  Mam*  Peachy's 
descendants  must  be  fed,  and  when  they  needed 
a  piece  of  salt  pork,  a  fat  back  or  maybe  a 
shoulder,  several  young  men  were  detailed  to 
go  over  to  the  smokehouse  belonging  to  Rolfe 
Boiling  and  simply  help  themselves.  Mam' 
Peachy  had  instructed  them  for  years  in  the 
ethics  of  this  lifting.  They  must  never  take 
hams  —  unless  for  some  special  occasion.  Shoul- 
ders, jowls,  and  fat  backs  were  good  enough  for 
the  likes  of  them.  To  be  sure,  the  smokehouse 
was  locked  and  the  key  kept  carefully  by  the 
mistress,  but  keys  and  locks  were  small  matters 
to  Mam*  Peachy's  descendants. 

It  is  not  well  for  man  to  live  on  salt  pork 
alone,  so  there  were  times  when  Elizabeth's 
henhouse  was  visited  instead  of  the  smokehouse. 
The  theft  of  her  poultry  was  the  thing  that  dis- 
tressed her  even  more  than  the  loss  of  the  pork, 
as  the  money  she  made  from  eggs  and  chickens 
was  all  that  she  had  ever  had  to  call  her  own. 

Philip  had  been  home  only  a  few  days  when 
he  installed  electric  burglar  alarms  on  the 


Magic— Black  and  White 

smokehouse  door  and  the  henhouse  door.  He  said 
nothing  about  it  even  to  his  mother.  In  the 
night,  the  first  one  after  the  installation,  the  bell 
rang  out  sharply  at  about  midnight.  Philip 
sprang  to  his  window,  from  which  he  had  a  good 
view  of  the  smokehouse.  In  the  moonlight  he 
could  plainly  see  two  frightened  negro  youths 
standing  spell-bound  for  a  moment  and  then 
fleeing  as  though  the  devil  himself  Were  after 
them. 

That  incident  placed  Philip  in  the  first  rank 
of  charm  workers,  and  Mam*  Peachy  was  forced 
to  take  a  back  seat. 

The  old  woman  hated  him  with  a  hatred  as 
deadly  as  she  did  his  mother,  but  she  feared 
him,  too.  She  tried  desperately  to  reinstate 
herself  with  her  own  people.  It  was  hard  to 
have  been  paramount  for  a  hundred  years  and 
then  have  a  slip  of  a  white  man  come  and  with 
a  few  simple,  straightforward  words  and  some 
toothache  medicine  and  some  silly  little  bells 
take  all  her  prestige  from  her. 

Sending  all  the  colored  children  to  school  was 
the  last  blow.  Education  was  something  Mam' 
Peachy  had  fought  persistently.  She  had  tried 
in  her  early  womanhood  to  learn  to  read,  but  in 
spite  of  her  keen  intelligence  and  powerful  will 
she  could  not  learn.  Perhaps  it  was  the  fault 


172  The  Shorn  Lamb 

of  her  teacher,  a  young  woman  who  was  living  at 
The  Hedges  at  the  time;  or  it  may  have  been 
that  the  wild  African  strain  was  too  strong  in 
her  veins  for  anything  quite  so  civilized  as  the 
alphabet.  At  any  rate,  she  could  not  learn,  and 
conceit,  which  was  one  of  her  strongest  charac- 
teristics, made  her  determine  against  education. 
If  she,  the  all-powerful  sorceress,  could  not  learn 
to  read  and  write,  then  reading  and  writing  was 
foolishness  and  the  persons  who  pretended  to 
make  head  or  tail  of  the  alphabet  were  foolish. 
Showing  off  was  something  Aunt  Peachy 
scorned  above  everything.  She  declared  that 
Philip  was  showing  off  in  this  business  of  send- 
ing all  the  colored  children  to  school.  For  once 
she  and  Elizabeth  were  of  one  mind;  that  was 
concerning  the  education  of  the  black  race;  but 
Elizabeth  held  her  peace,  loath  to  disagree  in 
the  slightest  particular  with  Tier  son.  Aunt 
Peachy,  however,  loudly  declaimed  against  the 
measure.  She  even  gave  out  that  she  would 
work  an  evil  spell  against  any  child  who 
attended  school.  Philip  offered  prizes  to  the 
children  on  the  Boiling  place  for  attendance  and 
scholarship.  His  reward  was  more  alluring  than 
Aunt  Peachy's  threat,  certain  benefit  pitted 
against  vague  disaster.  The  colored  school  was 
filled  to  overflowing. 


Magic— Black  and  White      173 

Philip's  mother  could  scarcely  conceal  her 
uneasiness  over  her  son's  methods.  For  so  many 
years  she  had  been  trying  to  keep  the  peace  and 
conciliate  her  husband  and  old  Mam'  Peachy, 
only  coming  out  and  fighting  when  a  question 
si>ch  as  her  children's  education  or  Betsy's  hav- 
ing the  proper  school  clothes  was  to  be  settled, 
that  Philip's  open  warfare  on  dirt,  ignorance 
and  mismanagement  made  Elizabeth  tremble. 

"You  don't  know  the  old  wretch  as  well  as 
I  do ,"  she  cautioned  Philip.  "  There  is  no  form 
of  meanness  or  wickedness  she  is  not  capable 
of,  and  her  influence  over  your  father  is  as 
strong  as  ever." 

"Yes,  that  is  so,  Mother,  but  remember  she 
is  very  old  and  feeble  and  father  doesn't  really 
care  much  how  the  farm  is  run.  I  believe  he 
rather  likes  to  tease  Aunt  Peachy.  Perhaps 
he  is  tired  of  having  her  boss  him  just  as  Old 
Abe  is.  My  chief  objection  to  the  old  woman  is 
the  way  she  snoops  around.  Sometimes  she  gets 
on  my  nerves  when  I  find  her  right  under  my 
feet.  Thank  goodness,  she  never  comes  up 
here!" 

Philip  had  fitted  up  a  workshop  in  the  attic, 
that  being  the  one  place  where  neither  his  father 
nor  Aunt  Peachy  ever  found  their  way.  Here 
he  kept  his  books  and  papers,  his  tools,  and  his 


174  The  Shorn  Lamb 

medicine  chest,  with  the  simple  remedies  recom- 
mended by  Dr.  Price  to  be  given  to  the  ailing 
darkeys,  instead  of  the  "charm  poultices"  and 
"yarb"  teas  with  which  Aunt  Peachy  had  been 
accustomed  to  hold  them  in  fearful  subjection. 

The  attic  extended  over  the  whole  house,  but 
only  a  part  of  it  had  been  floored  over.  It  was 
dimly  lighted  by  small  windows,  close  up  under 
the  eaves,  but  Philip  had  cut  a  skylight  in  the 
roof  and  neatly  fitted  in  a  sash  which  gave  him 
plenty  of  light  and  much  better  ventilation.  The 
discarded  furniture  of  past  generations  had  been 
pushed  back  in  the  dark  corners  of  the  huge 
room.  Stored  on  the  unfloored  rafters  were 
many  rare  pieces  of  mahogany,  broken  and 
marred  by  rough  usage  but  proclaiming  their 
beauty  to  anyone  who  might  hear  the  cry. 

As  a  boy,  Philip  had  heard  the  cry  but  he  had 
not  understood  what  it  meant.  He  had  always 
loved  the  attic,  always  found  a  certain  rest  and 
charm  about  the  place.  What  it  was  he  had  not 
known.  He  had  thought  it  was  because  there  he 
had  been  able  to  get  away  from  the  disagreeable 
cackle  and  scandal  of  Aunt  Peachy.  He  had 
not  realized  that  it  was  not  only  the  quiet  of  the 
place  that  rested  his  outraged  ears  but  that  cer- 
tain lines  of  beauty  delighted  his  unconscious 
eyes  and  were  as  potent  as  the  silence  in 


Magic — Black  and  White       175 

restoring  his  sensitive  nerves  to  normal  poise. 

Elizabeth  loved  the  attic,  too.  When  Philip 
was  away  from  home  during  those  long  four 
years  she  used  to  creep  up  there  and  just  sit 
and  think,  gazing  into  the  duety  depths  of  the 
corners,  vaguely  determining  that  some  day  she 
would  straighten  things  up,  move  everything 
and  clean.  She  never  had  the  time,  however, 
which  no  doubt  was  just  as  well,  as  in  her  zeal 
she  might  have  destroyed  some  of  the  charm  of 
the  place.  As  it  was,  she  swept  and  scrubbed  the 
floor  every  now  and  then,  washed  the  little  dusty 
windows  and  removed  the  cobwebs  that  the  busy 
spiders  festooned  in  the  corners. 

She  had  rubbed  up  some  of  the  furniture  a 
little  with  boiled  oil  and  turpentine.  An  old 
highboy  near  a  window  had  responded  resplend- 
ently  to  her  attentions.  The  light  shone  on  its 
polished  surface,  bringing  out  the  rich  red  of 
the  mahogany  and  its  fine  rippling  grain.  On 
it,  leaning  against  the  wall,  she  had  placed  the 
portrait  of  the  creator  of  the  sunken  garden. 

Philip  and  his  mother  now  came  together  to 
the  attic  for  peace  and  quiet.  Sometimes  Betsy 
joined  them  there,  but  the  place  did  not  appeal 
so  much  to  her  joyous  nature.  She  declared  it 
was  too  spooky  for  her,  although  the  skylight 
had  helped  it  a  little. 


176  The  Shorn  Lamb 

Lately  Jo  had  begun  to  find  his  way  to  the 
retreat  of  his  mother  and  brother.  He  would 
creep  up  quietly  and  watch  Philip  at  work. 
But  the  person  who  loved  the  attic  at  The 
Hedges  as  much  as  either  Philip  or  Elizabeth 
was  the  little  neighbor,  Rebecca  Taylor.  When- 
ever she  felt  sad  and  homesick  for  the  studio  in 
New  York,  for  the  old  life  there  with  her  charm- 
ing Daddy  and  the  circle  of  pleasant  friends, 
she  would  slip  over  the  river  by  way  of  the 
coon  bridge  and  knock  on  Mrs.  Boiling's  kitchen 
door. 

And  Rebecca  always  found  an  affectionate 
welcome  when  she  came. 


Chapter  12 
AUNT  PEARLY  GATES'  WISDOM 

"Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  do  you  mind  being  black 
all  the  way  through?  Sometimes,  I  wish  I'd  a' 
been  born  black  and  could  come  live  down  in 
your  cabin  with  you  and  Uncle  Si." 

"  Laws-a-mussy,  Miss  Becky  baby,  that  ain't 
no  way  for  'ristocratical  white  chilluns  ter  talk. 
The  good  Gawd  makes  some  of  us  black  an' 
some  of  us  white,  but  when  you  hear  black 
folks  longin'  fer  white  hides  or  white  folks 
longin'  fer  black  hides  'tain't  nothin'  but  the  ol' 
Debbie  a*  whisperin'  in  their  hearts — the  Debbie 
er  discontentment." 

"Well,  Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  I  wish  God  had 
been  just  a  little  gooder  and  made  me  either 
very  white  or  very  black." 

"  Nowr,  honey  chiT,  you  stay  in  out  the  weather 
some  an'  if  you's  bleeged  ter  go  out  put  on  yo' 
sunbonnet  an*  you  won't  be  near  so  bluenettish. 
How  you  'spect  ter  be  fa'  as  a  lily  if  you  go  bare- 
haided  right  out  in  the  sun  an'  win'  ? " 

"But,  Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  you  have  been 
in  out  of  the  weather  for  years  and  years — " 

177 


178  The  Shorn  Lamb 

"Pretty  nigh  twenty!" 

"And  you  haven't  bleached  a  bit,"  continued 
Rebecca. 

"But  I's  born  dyed-in-the-wool  black.  Th'ain't 
nothin'  gonter  change  me  but  I  'low  if 'n  you 
stays  in  the  house  a  spell,  leastways  puts  on  yo' 
bonnet,  you'll  git  as  white  as  a  'tater  sprout  in 
no  time.  Why  don'  you  let  ol'  Pearly  Gates 
wuck  some  button  holes  in  the  top  er  yo'  sun- 
bonnet  an'  plait  yo'  hair  through  the  holes? 
Then,  when  you  gits  ter  itchin  ter  snatch  off 
yo'  bonnet  it'll  be  a  unpossumbility  'thout  you 
take  down  yo'  hair." 

Rebecca  happily  agreed  to  her  old  friend's 
plan.  She  untied  the  despised  gingham  sun- 
bonnet  from  about  her  neck  and  handed  it  to 
Aunt  Pearly  Gates.  She  was  obliged  to  wear 
a  sunbonnet  but,  as  a  rule,  it  was  worn  hanging 
down  her  back.  She  watched  curiously  while 
the  old  negress  cut  slits  in  the  top  of  the  bonnet 
and  then  with  deft  fingers  worked  button  holes 
with  neat,  even  stitches.  For  twenty  years  Aunt 
Pearly  Gates  had  been  bed-ridden,  but  in  the 
whole  county  there  was  no  person,  black  or 
white,  more  industrious  than  she.  She  was  never 
idle  for  a  moment.  Even  in  the  dark,  through 
long,  sleepless  nights,  the  old  hands  were  busy 
either  knitting  or  tatting. 


Aunt  Pearly  Gates'  Wisdom 

"I  ain't  got  nothin'  but  time  an'  I  sho'  ain't 
a  gonter  was'e  none  er  that,"  she  would  say. 
"When  han's  is  got  ter  do  the  wuck  of  han's 
an'  feet  too,  they  is  fo'ced  ter  labor  overtime. 
I  don'  need  much  sleep  an'  I  of'en  draps  off 
when  I'm  a  tattin'.  I  ain't  never  been  able  ter 
tell  whether  I  tats  in  my  sleep  or  not.  Some- 
times I  thinks  I  does,  'cause  they'll  be  a  mighty 
big  pile  er  trimmin'  on  the  baid  in  the  mawnin'. 
As  fer  knittin':  One  time  I  tu'ned  a  sock  heel 
in  my  sleep.  I  knows  I  did  'cause  I  wa*  a 
dreamin'  an*  my  dream  wa'  all  mixed  up  with 
that  there  sock  heel.  It  seemed  lak  little  Miss 
Beck  baby  an'  me  wa'  knittin'  a  tremenjous 
sock.  Back  an'  fo'th  we  went,  pretty  nigh 
over  the  whole  place  as  fur  down  as  the  Rapidan 
an'  it  seemed  lak  the  business  of  the  fambly  wa' 
kinder  mixed  up  in  our  stitches  an  a  lot  depended 
on  how  we  tu'ned  the  heel.  An'  Miss  Beck 
baby,  by  the  time  we  got  ter  the  heel,  tuk  the 
needles  out'n  my  han's  an',  fo'  Gawd,  she  tu'ned 
as  pretty  a  heel  as  you  ever  seed!  Jes'  then  I 
woke  up  an'  bless  Bob  but  it  wa'  daylight  an' 
the  heel  er  the  sock  wa'  finished  an'  I  wa'  on 
the  downward  road  to'ads  the  toe.  An'  Si  John- 
son wa'  a  fussin'  an'  grumblin'  'ca'se  he  said  I 
wa'  a  clickin'  needles  all  night  a  interruptin'  er 
his  slumbers.  So,  I  knows  I  knits  in  my  sleep." 


180  The  Shorn  Lamb 

The  buttonholes  were  finished  and  Rebecca's 
dark  hair  pulled  through  and  braided.  The 
little  girl  stood  patiently  while  the  old  woman 
gently  smoothed  her  hair. 

"I  been  a  layin'  by  ter  git  Brer  Johnson  ter 
trade  in  some  er  this  here  tattin'  fer  a  bresh  ter 
keep  down  here  jes'  fer  yo'  hair,  Miss  Beck 
baby.  If  yo'  hair'd  git  mo'  'tention  it  wouldn't 
hurt  none.  Who  fixes  it  fer  you  of  a  mornin'  ? " 

"Aunt  Evelyn  does  it  sometimes  and  some- 
times Aunt  Myra  but  sometimes  I  just  kind  of 
slap  it  with  a  brush  myself  and  run  along  quick 
before  either  one  of  them  remembers  me.  Aunt 
Evelyn  digs  into  my  head  something  awful, 
Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  just  like  she  was  doing 
something  she  didn't  want  to  do  a  bit,  but  felt 
somehow  she  must  do  it  to  keep  from  going  to 
the  bad  place.  I  can  see  her  face  in  the  mirror 
over  my  head  and  it  looks  so  queer  and  hard- 
not  pretty  the  way  she  is  sometimes.  When 
Aunt  Myra  does  my  hair  she  stands  'way  off 
from  me  and  picks  up  the  comb  just  like  it  was 
a  snake,  or  something  horrid,  and  then  she  dabs 
at  me  and  seems  to  be  trying  not  to  touch  my 
hair  any  more  than  she  can  help — kind  of  like 
it  was  a  greasy  dishrag  or  something  nasty. 
What  makes  them  hate  me  so,  Aunt  Pearly 
Gates?" 


Aunt  Pearly  Gates'  Wisdom     181 

"Lord  love  us,  chiF !  They  don't  ter  say  hate 
you,"  answered  the  old  woman,  with  a  note  of 
sadness  in  her  rich,  soft  voice.  "You  mustn't 
git  no  sich  a  notion." 

"  But  they  do !  They  hate  me  and  Uncle  Spot 
hates  me.  I  think  he  hates  me  worst  of  all.  He 
never  says  anything  cross  to  me,  but  when  he 
helps  me  to  ham  I  have  a  feeling  that  he  can't 
decide  whether  he'd  rather  give  me  a  little  bit, 
so  little  that  I'll  starve  to  death  or  so  much  that 
I'll  make  myself  sick  eating  it.  He  usually 
gives  me  too  much  and  when  Aunt  Evelyn  tells 
him  so  he  smiles  a  kind  of  hard  smile.  I  think 
Uncle  Spot  is  so  handsome  and  I'd  rather  he'd 
like  me  than  anybody  but  I  don't  know  what  to 
do  to  make  him  feel  differently.  He  never  even 
looks  at  me.  I've  been  here  three  whole  months 
and  I  don't  know  my  aunts  and  uncle  any  better 
than  I  did  the  day  I  came." 

"Does  you  try  ter  make  'em  take  a  likin'  ter 
you?" 

"Ye-es  — I  try  a  little  bit." 

"Does  yer  love  Miss  Myra  an'  Miss  Evelyn 
the  way  you  wants  'em  ter  love  you?"  asked 
Aunt  Pearly  Gates. 

"  They  hated  me  so  from  the  very  first,  Aunt 
Pearly  Gates.  I  didn't  do  anything  to  make 
them  hate  me.  They  just  did  it." 


182  The  Shorn  Lamb 

"But  is  you  done  nothin'  ter  'suade  'em  ter 
stop  a  hatin'  of  you." 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  don't  have  to 
do  anything  to  Grandfather.  He  just  naturally 
likes  me.  I  believe  he  liked  me  because  I  sassed 
him  and  because  he  can't  tease  me.  I  tease  him 
back  every  time  and  then  he  and  I  laugh  and 
laugh  and  Aunt  Evelyn  and  Aunt  M yra  look 
like  somebody  had  talked  out  loud  in  church 
or  something  and  Uncle  Spot  gets  up  and  leaves 
the  room.  It  seems  to  tease  them  when  Grand- 
father and  I  have  a  joke  that  they  can't 
see.  Sometimes  we  just  pretend  to  have  a  joke. 
That's  the  best  joke  we  have.  Grandfather 
always  starts  that  joke  when  the  family  get 
kind  of  stuffy  and  stupid  and  dignified.  We 
made  Aunt  Evelyn  cry  the  other  day.  She 
thought  the  joke  was  on  her  and  there  wasn't 
any  joke  at  all!" 

Aunt  Pearly  Gates  looked  sad,  put  down  her 
needles  and  gazed  attentively  into  the  dimpling 
little  brown  face. 

"  Honey  baby,  don't  you  know  the  good  Gawd 
is  sent  you  here  ter  make  happiness  instid  er 
misery?  Jokes  is  fine  and  lots  er  happiness 
comes  through  jokes  but  not  jokes  what  makes 
other  folks  cry.  S'pose  the  joke  had  been  on 
you.  Would  you  had  er  liked  that  much?" 


Aunt  Pearly  Gates'  Wisdom     183 

"  But  I  would  have  seen  it  and  laughed.  My 
aunts  can't  ever  see  the  joke.  Then  they  blame 
me  because  they  are  afraid  of  Grandfather  and 
as  soon  as  his  back  is  turned  they  pick  on  me. 

"If  there  was  any  fun  in  their  picking  I 
wouldn't  mind  a  bit  but  they  are  just  hard  and 
cold  and  mean.  They  raise  their  eyebrows  and 
talk  about  how  blond  all  true  Taylors  are, 
and  how  well  grown,  and  what  a  misfortune  it 
would  be  to  be  born  small  and  dark.  Of  course 
they  want  me  to  understand  that  they  do  not 
really  believe  I  am  their  brother's  child.  That's 
kind  of  hard  because — because  they  mean  to 
say  something  about  my  poor  little  mother. 
They  don't  say  it  right  out,  but  I  can  see  they 
mean  unkind  things." 

Aunt  Pearly  Gates  looked  distressed.  She 
resumed  her  knitting,  adroitly  picking  up  a 
dropped  stitch. 

'You  ain't  never  answered  my  question, 
honey  baby:  Does  you  love  Miss  Myra  and 
Miss  Evelyn  the  way  you  wants  them  ter  love 
you?  Does  you  sho'  'nough  keer  whether  they 
loves  you  or  not?  I'm  a  old,  old  ooman,  Miss 
Beck  baby,  and  I's  took  a  heap  er  notice  er 
folks  in  my  time  an*  I  ain't  never  seen  hate  all 
on  one  side.  I  ain't  a  sayin'  they  didn't  start  it 
in  the  fust  beginning  but  what  I  is  a  sayin'  is 


184  The  Shorn  Lamb 

that  the  way  ter  stop  folks  a  hatin'  you  is  stop 
a  hatin'  them.  I's  been  a'  watchin'  you  all  this 
summer  an'  a  hopin'  you  wa'  a  gonter  fin*  out 
a  way  ter  git  on  better  with  po'  Miss  Myra  an' 
Miss  Evelyn." 

"They  are  not  as  poor  as  I  am,"  pouted 
Rebecca. 

"Yes,  they  is,  chil'.  They's  po'  'cause  they 
ain't  never  learned  how  ter  wuck  none,  they  nor 
they  ma  befo'  'em.  They  don't  know  nothin' 
'bout  the  joy  of  'complishin'  something  an'  they 
air  got  sluggerish  minds  an'  I  reckon  they  ain't 
never  enjyed  a  good  larf  sence  they  wa'  babies 
and  somebody  tickled  they  toes." 

"That's  kind  of  sad  but  they  needn't  get  so 
sore  when  Grandfather  and  I  are  getting  our 
toes  tickled  now.  So  many  things  are  funny 
and  when  nothing  funny  is  happening  at  the 
moment  one  can  always  think  about  something 
funny  that  has  happened,"  protested  Rebecca. 

'You  ain't  never  answered  my  question  yit, 
honey  baby." 

'You  mean  about  loving  them  if  I  expect 
them  to  love  me?  How  can  I  love  people  who 
are  always  putting  me  in  the  wrong?  I  never 
do  anything  to  suit  them?" 

"Do  they  make  out  to  suit  you  none?" 

"  We-e-11,  no,  not  exactly!    But,  Aunt  Pearly 


Aunt  Pearly  Gates'  Wisdom     185 

Gates,  they  are  older  than  I  am." 

"  Why,  chil',  age  ain't  got  a  mite  ter  do  with 
gittin'  along  with  folks.  Look  at  oY  Marse 
Bob!  He  air  oP  enough  ter  git  along  if  age'll 
do  it.  It  air  plain  common  sense  mixed  with  a 
good,  kin'  heart  that  puts  up  with  other  folkses' 
failin's  that  does  the  wuck.  Not  that  Marse 
Bob  ain't  got  mo'  sense  than  mos'  folks  an'  his 
heart  is  kin',  too,  but  he  air  so  imtolerant  to'ds 
folks  what  ain't  got  as  much  sense  as  he  am. 
He  done  made  a  joke  er  the  whole  cremation  an' 
it  looks  lak  it  done  kinder  et  in  on  his  soul.  He 
allus  tuck  out  his  spleen  a  teasin'  folks.  He 
allus  wa'  a  teasin'  pusson  from  the  time  he  wa' 
a  boy.  He  teased  his  ma  an'  his  pa.  He  teased 
all  the  niggers  on  the  place  an'  even  the  ani- 
mules,  though  he  loved  'em  all  an'  they  loved 
him.  When  he  married  Miss  Evy  Spottswood, 
yo'  gran'ma  what  was,  he'd  tease  her  till  she'd 
cry  an'  then  he'd  tease  her  some  mo'.  I  hearn 
him  with  my  own  years  a  teasin'  her  on  her  death 
bed.  That  wa'  twenty  years  ago,  jes'  befo'  my 
lim's  played  out  on  me." 

"Didn't  he  love  her,  Aunt  Pearly  Gates?" 
asked  Rebecca  in  big-eyed  wonderment. 

"Sho'  he  loved  her,  but  teasin'  air  allus  been 
the  bref  er  life  ter  Marse  Bob.  He  didn't  mean 
no  harm,  but  Miss  Evy  wa'  too  easy  ter  tease. 


186  The  Shorn  Lamb 

Same  way  wif  all  the  chilluns,  'ceptin'  yo'  pa, 
Marse  Tom.  Nothin'  couldn't  tease  Marse  Tom. 
He'd  jes'  larf  an*  tu'n  the  joke  on  him.  I 
reckon  tha's  why  he  tho't  mo'  er  Marse  Tom 
than  any  o'  the  res'  er  his  chilluns.  That's  how 
come  he  tuck  on  so  when  yo'  pa  lef '  Virginny  an' 
went  off  ter  them  furren  parts  up  to  Noo  York. 
He  ain't  never  stopped  a  missin'  him." 

"Did  my  father  tease  people,  too?" 

"An*  that  he  didn't!  He  useter  crack  plenty 
er  jokes,  but  they  wa'  allus  the  kinder  jokes 
what  made  folks  laugh  wif  him.  Yo'  grampa 
air  allus  a  laughin'  at  folks  instead  er  wif  'em. 
Now,  honey  baby,  OF  Aunt  Pearly  Gates  air 
got  a  notion  in  her  fool  ol'  haid  that  yo'  is  gonter 
make  things  kinder  happier  down  here  at  Mill 
House.  Yo'  mus'n'  be  too  much  lak  yo'  grampa, 
but  try  ter  be  mo'  lak  yo'  pa.  I  ain't  a  throwin* 
no  sticks  at  Marse  Bob  an'  I  see  all  he  virtues. 
You  mus'  copy  'em,  Miss  Beck  baby,  an'  let 
all  the  faults  go  by.  You  is  done  made  the  ol' 
man  happier  by  comin'.  Now  try  an'  make  all 
the  others  happy,  too." 

"Yes,  Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  I'll  try,  but  you 
must  tell  me  where  to  begin,"  said  Rebecca, 
solemnly. 

"  That's  yo'  pa's  own  chiP,"  approved  the  old 
woman.  "Begin  at  the  fust  beginnin'.  When 


Aunt  Pearly  Gates'  Wisdom     187 

we  want  folks  ter  lak  us  we  begins  by  doin'  'em 
a  kin'ness.  Now  I  ain't  up  ter  the  gret  house 
an'  I  ain't  able  ter  say  jes'  what  them  kind- 
nesses ought  ter  be,  but  they  is  sholy  sumpen  a 
nice  liT  gal  kin  do  ter  make  life  brighter  fer  two 
po'  ladies  what  ain't  got  nothin'  ter  do  on 
Gawd's  green  yearth  but  set  aroun*  an*  com- 
plain. Is  you  talked  ter  them  much?" 

"No!  I  never  know  what  to  talk  about.  I 
tried  at  first,  because  Mrs.  O'Shea  used  to  tell 
me  I  must  try  to  be  entertaining,  but  they  were 
so  shocked  by  everything  I  said  I  just  stopped 
and  let  off  steam  on  Grandfather.  He  is  always 
glad  to  listen  to  me." 

"Then,  chiT,  you  mus'  fin'  something  what 
ain'  shockin'  ter  they  squeamy  years.  Fin'  out 
what  is  mos'  interestin'  ter  them  an'  talk  about 
them  things.  You  try  it,  baby,  an*  come  see 
oF  Pearly  Gates  to-morrer  an'  tell  her  all  about 
it.  I  mought  have  a  s'prise  fer  you  by  then, 
anyhow." 


Chapter  13 
SPOTTSWOOD  CAPITULATES 

The  first  Taylors  had  always  dined  at  noon- 
the  logical  time  for  man  and  beast  to  leave  off 
work  for  rest  and  refreshment  —  but  each  high- 
born lady  who  had  married  into  the  family  had 
succeeded  in  pushing  the  dinner  hour  back  a 
little  until  at  the  time  of  Rebecca's  advent  the 
dinner  hour  was  at  half -after- two.  S  potts  wood 
grumbled  at  the  lateness  of  this  meal,  as  it  did 
not  fit  in  at  all  with  a  farmer's  day,  but  the 
ladies  of  the  household  contended  that  it  was  the 
height  of  vulgarity  to  dine  earlier  and  even 
wanted  Aunt  Testy  to  change  the  hour  to  three 
o'clock,  but  half-after-two  suited  Aunt  Testy 
and  half -after-two  it  remained. 

Miss  Evelyn  and  Miss  Myra  could  cite  many 
instances  to  show  that  three  was  the  hour  of  din- 
ing for  all  true  aristocrats.  At  noon,  when  the 
farm  bells  throughout  the  countryside  pealed 
forth  the  glad  tidings  that  the  hour  of  rest  and 
food  had  come,  they  felt  a  certain  satisfaction 
that  they  were  not  as  others  were.  Their  farm 
bell  did  not  ring.  To  be  sure,  hands  must  be 

188 


Spottswood  Capitulates        189 

fed  at  noon  and  their  brother  always  came  in 
from  the  fields  for  a  snack,  but  the  cue  was 
given  by  the  Boilings'  great  bell  across  the  river, 
or  by  the  hub  factory's  shrill  whistle. 

Rebecca  found  it  difficult  to  adjust  herself  to 
this  dinner  hour.  In  her  Bohemian  life  what 
dining  she  had  done  had  been  somewhere  be- 
tween six  and  seven  o'clock,  with  luncheon  be- 
tween twelve  and  one.  When  she  first  came  to 
Mill  House  the  time  between  breakfast  and  din- 
ner had  seemed  interminable,  but  she  had 
learned  of  the  snack  her  uncle  was  accustomed 
to  have  at  noon  and  had  formed  a  habit  of 
coming  to  Aunt  Testy  at  the  same  time  for  a 
pone  of  hot  corn  bread  and  a  mug  of  fresh 
buttermilk.  She  was  careful  not  to  be  in  Spot's 
way,  however,  realizing  that  her  presence  was 
distasteful  to  him.  He  usually  had  his  snack 
at  a  table  on  the  long  back  porch  which  sepa- 
rated the  outside  kitchen  from  the  rest  of  the 
house.  Rebecca,  with  her  mug  of  buttermilk 
fresh  from  the  churn,  with  delectable  bits  of 
butter  floating  around  in  it,  and  her  great  crisp 
corn  pone,  would  seat  herself  on  the  lower 
porch  step.  The  only  thing  to  mar  her  happi- 
ness was  the  lack  of  companionship  during  this 
luncheon.  She  could  hear  the  hands  laughing 
and  talking  in  the  kitchen,  where  Aunt  Testy 


190  The  Shorn  Lamb 

was  giving  them  their  mid-day  meal,  and  she 
could  see  the  stalwart  back  of  her  silent  uncle 
as  he  sat  at  the  table  at  the  end  of  the  porch. 
She  often  wished  she  had  been  "born  black" 
and  could  join  the  hands  in  the  kitchen.  They 
would  have  talked  to  her,  and  no  doubt  wel- 
comed her  with  pleasure.  Certainly  they  would 
not  have  ignored  her  as  her  uncle  persisted  in 
doing. 

She  wondered  sometimes  if  he  was  really 
unaware  of  her  presence.  He  never  looked  at 
her,  but  divided  his  attention  between  his  food 
and  his  dog,  Doctor,  a  Llewellyn  setter,  who 
was  his  constant  companion.  Doctor  enjoyed 
this  snack  on  the  porch,  as  at  no  other  meal 
could  he  come  to  table  with  his  master,  the 
ladies  of  the  house  being  strict  about  dogs  being 
allowed  in  the  house.  Doctor  would  sit  by 
Spot's  side,  his  plume-like  tail  spread  out  on  the 
floor,  and  at  every  mark  of  attention  from  his 
master,  either  an  affectionate  pat  or  a  bit  of 
food,  he  would  sweep  the  porch  with  a  vigorous 
wagging.  Sometimes  the  tidbits  would  come  too 
slowly  for  his  liking,  and  then  he  would  place 
his  paw  imploringly  on  Spot's  knee  and  the 
expression  in  his  eyes  would  have  melted  the 
heart  of  a  hanging  judge. 

Doctor  was  a  man's  dog  and  a  one  man's  dog 


Spottswood  Capitulates        191 

at  that.  He  was  devoted  to  his  master  and  his 
master  alone.  He  tolerated  other  males,  but 
made  no  advances  toward  them,  and  he  simply 
ignored  females.  Rebecca,  when  she  first  came 
to  live  with  her  grandfather,  had  felt. a  little 
afraid  of  the  big  dog.  She  shrank  instinctively 
from  him  if  he  passed  near  her.  She  had  never 
had  a  pet  in  the  studio  and  her  only  acquaint- 
ance with  animals  had  been  through  the  bars  of 
the  zoo.  Life  on  the  farm  had  thrown  her  in 
contact  with  many  kinds  of  live  creatures  and 
gradually  all  fear  of  them  left  her.  She  was 
learning  to  drive  the  horses  and  milk  the  cows. 
A  setting  goose  had  no  terrors  for  her  and  she 
faced  with  equanimity  the  huge,  strutting  white 
turkey  gobbler,  even  when  he  made  the  most 
pompous  noises  and  advanced  towards  her  scrap- 
ing his  wings  on  the  ground. 

Little  by  little  Rebecca  made  friends  with  all 
the  creatures,  all  but  Doctor.  He  seemed  to 
have  taken  his  cue  from  his  master  and  passed 
her  by  with  scornful  disdain.  The  proud  spirit 
that  kept  the  girl  from  forcing  her  presence  on 
the  man  deterred  her  from  even  so  much  as  put- 
ting her  hand  on  the  dog's  silky  head,  although 
she  longed  to  do  it.  He  was  a  beautiful  dog, 
with  long  silver-white  fur,  spotted  in  glossy 
black.  What  a  delightful  thing  it  would  be  to 


192  The  Shorn  Lamb 

have  a  companion  like  Doctor  when  she  roamed 
around  the  place!  There  would  be  no  more 
lonesome  times  then.  Now  there  were  lone- 
some times,  in  spite  of  the  many  visits  to  Aunt 
Pearly  Gates  and  the  long,  intimate  talks  she 
had  with  Major  Taylor  in  the  evening;  in  spite 
of  the  new  friends  she  had  made  among  the 
dumb  creatures  on  the  farm  and  the  kindness 
shown  her  by  all  of  the  colored  people  employed 
by  her  grandfather. 

Rebecca  loved  the  country  life,  but  there  were 
times  when  she  longed  for  the  merry  old  days 
in  the  studio,  with  the  talky  parties.  She  longed 
for  the  excitement  of  the  crowded  New  York 
streets,  for  the  life,  color,  camaraderie  of  the 
artists'  quarter  where  her  years  had  been  spent. 
She  longed  for  Mrs.  O'Shea,  and  the  many  tales 
of  dire  misfortune  that  had  befallen  her  and 
her  family.  Above  all,  she  longed  for  the  dear 
man  whom  she  had  called  Daddy,  who  had  been 
to  her  such  a  charming  companion,  counselor 
and  guide. 

Rebecca  was  devoted  to  her  grandfather, 
whose  affection  for  her  was  evident  to  all,  but 
she  had  seen  little  of  him  for  the  last  six  weeks. 
He  was  engrossed  with  business  at  the  hub  fac- 
tory, sometimes  not  even  coming  home  for  the 
sacred  rite  of  the  half -after-two  dinner.  When 


Spottswood  Capitulates        193 

he  was  at  home  he  seemed  worried  and  harassed, 
although  his  kindness  and  concern  for  Rebecca 
never  flagged.  The  more  his  business  harried 
him  the  more  Major  Taylor  teased  his  son  and 
daughters.  They,  in  consequence,  could  barely 
conceal  their  satisfaction  on  the  days  in  which 
the  hub  factory  made  it  impossible  for  him  to 
come  home  for  dinner. 

Those  were  sad  days  for  Rebecca.  Then  the 
aunts  corrected  her  to  their  hearts'  content.  It 
made  no  change  in  her  uncle's  manner,  however. 
He  still  ignored  her,  as  he  did  in  his  father's 
presence. 

What  Aunt  Pearly  Gates  had  said  to  Re- 
becca in  regard  to  her  relations  with  Mill  House 
folks  had  made  a  deep  impression  on  the  little 
girl.  She  determined  to  try  the  old  woman's 
kindly  plan  and  endeavor  to  make  herself  more 
agreeable  to  them. 

"First,  I  must  decide  what  to  talk  about  that 
will  interest  them,  and  I  must  be  sure  not  to 
shock  them.  I  must  do  all  the  things  the  aunts 
make  a  point  of,  and  I  mustn't  do  any  of  the 
things  they  don't  like.  As  for  Uncle  Spot,  I 
guess  he'll  be  the  hardest  of  all,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, as  she  walked  slowly  home  from  Aunt 
Pearly  Gates'  cabin,  after  her  talk  with  her. 

The  ftrn?  bell  at  The  Hedges  tolled  for  the 


194  The  Shorn  Lamb 

noon  rest  and  the  whistle  at  the  hub  factory 
blew  a  shrill  blast.  Rebecca  hastened  on  her 
way.  She  fancied  she  could  smell  the  good 
corn  pone  that  Aunt  Testy  would  have  ready 
for  her,  split  open  and  dripping  with  fresh, 
sweet  butter.  Dr.  Price's  prescription  had 
brought  health  to  the  little  waif,  and  with 
health  had  come  the  appetite  of  a  field  hand. 
Rebecca  liked  to  arrive  at  the  back  porch  a  little 
before  her  Uncle  Spot.  She  always  hoped  he 
would  notice  her  as  he  passed  her  on  the  steps. 
He  never  did,  but  she  took  a  certain  satisfaction 
in  his  nearness  as  he  went  up,  two  at  a  time,  and 
crossed  the  porch  to  the  tin  basin  that  was 
always  on  the  bench  by  the  wall,  right  under 
the  shelf  where  stood  the  brass-rimmed  cedar 
water  bucket,  with  its  gourd  dipper.  He  always 
did  exactly  the  same  thing  every  day.  He 
dipped  out  three  dippers  full  of  water,  and 
then,  stooping  his  great  height  to  the  low  bench, 
he  washed  his  hands  and  face,  using  the  strong 
turpentine  soap  that  was  in  a  broken  saucer  by 
the  basin. 

Rebecca  loved  to  look  at  his  broad  back  as  he 
leaned  to  the  bench.  She  liked  to  see  the  way 
he  spread  his  legs  as  he  stooped — such  strong, 
finely  shaped  legs!  She  wished  she  could  draw, 
or  model  in  clay,  so  she  could  in  some  way 


Spottswood  Capitulates        195 

express  what  the  lines  of  the  young  man  meant 
to  her  artistic  sense.  She  liked  the  smell  of  the 
turpentine  soap.  It  brought  back,  in  an  inde- 
finable way,  scenes  of  her  babyhood  when  her 
father  was  painting  the  portrait  of  her  mother. 
Above  all,  she  liked  the  strange  gurgling  noise 
Spot  made  when  he  washed  his  face  with  great 
hands-full  of  water.  She  liked  the  noise  so 
much  that  she  had  tried  to  imitate  it  when 
washing  her  own  face  in  the  china  basin  in  her 
room,  but  Aunt  Myra  had  heard  her  and  sternly 
rebuked  such  vulgarity,  and  she  had  not 
attempted  it  again  in  her  basin — but  had  been 
quite  successful  in  the  spring  down  in  the  cow 
pasture ! 

On  this  day  Rebecca  got  safely  to  her  seat 
on  the  top  step  before  Spot  arrived  and  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  him  swing  around  the 
corner  of  the  house,  his  blue  shirt  open  at  the 
throat,  Doctor  following  close  to  heel.  Spot's 
hat  was  in  his  hand  and  his  yellow  hair  was 
gleaming  in  the  sun  like  ripe  wheat.  How  could 
anyone  look  so  like  her  father  and  be  so 
different? 

Her  uncle  did  look  at  her  in  passing,  and 
there  was  an  amused  expression  on  his  counte- 
nance. What  made  him  smile?  Suddenly  she 
remembered  that  her  hair  was  plaited  through 


196  The  Shorn  Lamb 

the  buttonholes  in  the  top  of  her  bonnet!  She 
put  up  her  hand  and  felt  the  thick  rope  of  hair. 
Anyhow,  it  had  made  her  keep  her  bonnet  on 
better  than  ever  before.  Surely  the  aunts  would 
approve,  even  if  the  uncle  found  food  for  merri- 
ment in  it. 

As  Doctor  passed  her  she  put  out  a  tentative 
hand  to  stroke  his  silken  back.  He  submitted 
to  the  caress  with  lordly  indifference,  but  he  did 
turn  his  head  and  look  at  her  with  something 
like  toleration  in  his  hazel  eyes.  She  was  almost 
happy.  She  watched  Spot  go  through  his  ablu- 
tions. Maybe  this  would  be  a  good  time  to  try 
to  talk  to  him!  He  stood  with  his  feet  far  apart 
as  he  leaned  over  the  basin  and  made  a  nice 
gurgly  noise  down  in  the  water.  Then  he  gave 
his  face  a  vigorous  rubbing  on  the  roller  towel. 

"Uncle  Spot,  did  you  ever  see  a  giraffe 
drink?  He  spraddles  his  legs  out  just  the  way 
you  do,  because  you  see  his  legs  are  longer  than 
his  neck." 

Spottswood  stopped  drying  his  face  for  a 
moment  and  looked  at  Rebecca  in  amazement. 
What  business  had  she  talking  to  him?  Imperti- 
nent little  minx!  Why  should  she  hang  around 
him  when  he  was  having  his  snack?  Why  should 
she  put  her  hand  on  his  dog?  He  resented  the 
fact  that  Doctor  had  submitted  to  the  caress 


Spottswood  Capitulates        197 

with  as  much  grace  as  he  had  shown.  What  was 
all  this  talk  of  giraffes  and  the  way  they  drank? 

"I  have  seen  giraffes  lots  of  times,  but  never 
noticed  the  way  they  drank  until  I  saw  a  movie 
of  some  animals  in  the  jungle,"  Rebecca  con- 
tinued. "It  was  a  picture  of  a  drinking  hole 
during  a  great  drouth  when  all  the  animals  came 
to  drink.  Kipling  tells  about  a  drinking  hole  in 
one  of  his  stories.  When  I  saw  the  movie  it 
made  me  understand  Kipling  better." 

Spot  scowled  and  turned  his  back.  If  this 
talk  was  to  keep  up  he  would  have  Aunt  Testy 
take  his  food  into  the  dining  room  and  give  up 
the  back  porch  to  the  interloper.  And  Rebecca, 
serenely  unconscious,  chattered  on. 

"That  movie  of  the  jungle  animals  made  me 
very  sad.  It  seems  terrible  to  snare  them  and 
place  them  in  captivity.  There  was  one  great 
hyena  that  dragged  the  trap  that  had  sprung  on 
him  for  miles  and  miles  until  he  was  so  ex- 
hausted it  almost  broke  my  heart  and  then  he 
was  put  in  a  cage  and  brought  to  New  York. 
You  can  see  him  now  up  at  the  Bronx  Zoo." 

Aunt  Testy  appeared  with  a  tray  of  food,  to 
break  Spot's  silence,  handing  Rebecca  a  plate 
of  hot  corn  bread  and  a  mug  of  cold  buttermilk, 
and  taking  a  similar  repast  to  the  table  for  her 
young  master.  She  then  waddled  back  to  her 


198  The  Shorn  Lamb 

kitchen  to  dish  up  the  noon  dinner  for  the  field 
hands. 

Rebecca  took  a  delicate  bite  of  the  steaming 
pone,  and  a  gulp  of  buttermilk  to  allay  the  heat. 
Spot  sat  at  his  table,  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  corn 
bread,  which  was  too  hot  to  tackle.  Doctor  put 
an  imploring  paw  on  his  knee,  but  he  did  not 
get  his  usual  pat  or  word  of  commendation. 
Doctor  was  out  of  favor  with  his  master  for 
having  submitted  to  the  caress  of  the  interloper. 

"Do  you  believe  in  prayer,  Uncle  Spot?  I 
mean  in  the  direct  answer  to  prayer.  Daddy 
used  to  say  there  was  lots  of  difference  in 
believing  in  prayer  and  believing  in  the  direct 
answer  to  it." 

Mr.  Spottswood  Taylor  had  taken  a  great 
mouthful  of  hot  corn  pone,  and  Rebecca  hoped 
that  was  the  reason  he  did  not  deign  a  reply  to 
her  searching  question. 

"I  used  to  believe  with  all  my  heart,"  Re- 
becca rattled  on.  "After  I  saw  the  hyena  in 
Bronx  Zoo  that  I  had  seen  in  the  movies  I 
began  to  pray  that  God  would  let  him  loose.  I 
began  to  pray  that  God  would  let  all  the  ani- 
mals out  of  Central  Park  Zoo  and  the  Bronx 
Zoo,  too!  I  prayed  and  prayed  and  I  was  sure 
God  would  answer  my  prayers.  Then,  all  of  a 
sudden,  I  began  to  scream  in  the  night  because 


Spottswood  Capitulates        199 

I  suddenly  remembered  that  some  of  the  ani- 
mals wouldn't  understand  and  they  might  eat 
up  all  the  little  children  in  New  York — includ- 
ing me  —  but  I  felt  I  deserved  to  be  eaten  up 
for  praying  such  a  thoughtless  prayer.  I 
couldn't  help  thinking  it  was  something  of  a 
joke  on  me,  too,  and  then  I  got  to  laughing 
until  I  had  regular  hysterics  and  Daddy  had  to 
give  me  aromatic  ammonia  and  explain  that  the 
efficacy  of  prayer  didn't  mean  granting  prayers 
like  that." 

Rebecca  looked  at  Spottswood  Taylor  intently 
to  see  if  he  had  been  interested.  Her  chagrin 
was  intense  when  she  saw  him  get  up  from  his 
seat  and  carry  his  plate  of  food  into  the  dining 
room.  He  came  back  for  the  pitcher  of  butter- 
milk. A  wicked  desire  to  tease  him  then  took 
possession  of  the  little  girl.  Her  Grandfather's 
spirit  was  asserting  itself. 

"  The  giraffe  doesn't  like  to  share  his  drinking 
hole  with  the  other  animals,  either,  Uncle  Spot," 
she  said.  "In  the  movie  I  saw,  when  he  got 
ready  to  drink  he  wrent  around  with  his  long 
legs  busy  kicking  all  of  the  smaller  animals  out 
of  the  way.  He  wanted  plenty  of  room  to 
drink  in.  I  fancy  if  there  had  been  another 
drinking  hole  he  would  have  gone  there,  but  as 
it  was  he  just  had  to  drink  before  all  the  other 


200  The  Shorn  Lamb 

creatures,  and  perhaps  they  laughed  at  him  for 
having  to  spraddle  his  legs  out  so  far." 

Rebecca  raised  her  voice,  to  make  sure  Spot 
heard  her  last  words.  He  was  gone  and  the 
door  to  the  dining  room  was  closed  with  a  bang. 
Then  the  little  girl  put  her  head  in  her  lap  and 
wept  bitterly. 

Doctor  had  followed  his  master  to  the  door, 
somewhat  dazed  by  his  behavior.  Why  should 
he  leave  him  without  word  or  look  and  why 
should  his  share  of  the  delectable  corn  pone  be 
denied  him.  He  stood  by  the  door  a  moment, 
waving  his  tail  to  and  fro.  Once  he  raised  his 
paw  and  scratched  gently  for  admittance,  or  at 
least  an  explanation.  He  listened,  head  a  bit 
on  one  side.  Then  he  looked  at  Rebecca.  She 
was  sobbing,  her  face  buried  in  her  hands  and 
her  slender  form  a  little  huddled  heap  of  misery. 
The  dog  walked  slowly  towards  her  and  then, 
with  the  strange  sympathy  that  dogs  often  Feel 
and  show  to  mankind  in  distress,  he  thrust  his 
soft  nose  between  her  hands  and  tear-stained 
face  and  gently  muzzled  her  under  her  sun- 
bonnet,  licking  her  tears  away  as  though  he 
liked  the  salty  taste. 

Rebecca's  sobs  ceased. 

"Oh,  Doctor,  Doctor!  What  a  perfect  gen- 
tleman you  are!"  she  breathed.  "Won't  you 


Spottswood  Capitulates         201 

love  me  just  a  little?"  The  dog  raised  his  paw 
and  put  it  against  her  breast. 

"Here — you  can  have  all  my  corn  bread.  I 
am  too  full  of  emotion  for  solid  food.  I'll  drink 
the  buttermilk." 

The  dog  licked  the  platter  clean  and  the  child 
drained  the  glass.  Then  together  they  raced 
around  the  house  and  down  to  the  river  bank. 
They  had  much  to  tell  each  other. 

Rebecca  and  Doctor  had  a  never-to-be-for- 
gotten, but  often  to  be  repeated,  time  together 
down  by  the  riverside.  Doctor  was  like  some  man 
who  had  passed  the  period  of  puppy  love  with- 
out being  even  exposed  to  the  malady,  but  who, 
in  sober  middle-age,  had  caught  the  disease  and 
was  taking  it  harder  than  he  would  had  he  had 
it  in  his  youth.  His  master's  conversation  was 
good  enough  in  its  way,  but  it  was  nothing  to 
the  endearing  baby-talk  Rebecca  was  pouring 
into  his  twitching,  silken  ears.  A  masculine  pat 
was  about  all  he  ever  got  from  Spottswood,  but 
this  adorable  girl  was  fondling  him,  rubbing  his 
nose,  scratching  his  throat  and  picking  burrs 
out  of  his  fur.  He  was  particularly  grateful 
that  she  found  a  tick  that  was  burying  itself  on 
top  of  his  tail,  right  at  the  root,  where  no  dog 
ever  can  quite  reach  with  either  paw  or  tooth. 

They  sat  on  the  river  bank  a  long  time.    Re- 


202  The  Shorn  Lamb 

becca  felt  happier  than  she  had  since  the  death 
of  her  dear  Daddy.  She  was  sorry  her  attempt 
to  make  friends  with  her  uncle  had  failed,  but 
the  love  of  a  dog  like  Doctor  was  much  more 
to  be  desired  than  mere  toleration  from  a  man 
like  her  Uncle  Spot,  even  though  he  did  look 
like  a  young,  sun-burned  Greek  god. 

"Doctor,  you  have  more  temperament  than 
Uncle  Spot,  and  I  think  you  and  I  are  soul 
mates,"  chuckled  the  little  girl. 

Doctor  wagged  his  tail  and  gave  Rebecca's 
neck  an  ecstatic  lick,  under  the  curtain  of  the 
sunbonnet  which  she  was  still  wearing,  thanks 
to  Aunt  Pearly  Gates'  device. 

"Do  you  know,  Doctor,  I  am  afraid  it  is 
almost  time  for  that  old  dinner  to  be  served. 
Are  you  hungry?  I'm  not  a  bit,  although  I 
didn't  eat  my  corn  pone.  We  mustn't  be  late, 
because  to-day  is  the  day  I  am  trying  to  make 
my  relations  love  me.  It  is  certainly  up-hill 
work.  Grandfather  is  not  coming  home  to  din- 
ner to-day,  because  I  heard  him  tell  Aunt  Testy 
to  send  him  some  lunch  by  Willie  Bell,  and  I'll 
bet  anything  the  aunts  will  pick  on  me  for  every- 
thing I've  done  wrong  and  all  the  things  I  might 
do  wrong.  I  wish  my  stomach  kept  better  time, 
Doctor.  It  never  tells  me  when  dinner  is  ready. 
Come,  let's  race!" 


Spottswood  Capitulates        203 

Dinner  was  ready  —  more  than  ready.  Aunt 
Testy  had  held  it  back  a  few  minutes  in  the  hope 
that  Rebecca  would  come  in  time  to  miss  the 
stern  reprimands  she  was  sure  to  get  from  the 
Misses  Taylor. 

"  Miss  Myra  an'  Miss  Evelyn  ain't  got  nothin' 
on  Gawd's  green  yearth  ter  do  but  pick  on  that 
lamb,"  she  muttered  as  she  brought  in  the  din- 
ner. The  clock  hands  pointed  to  ten  minutes  to 
three,  and  the  ladies  were  evidently  impatient. 
Spottswood  still  was  irritated  over  the  occur- 
rence at  noon.  He  wondered  where  his  dog  was, 
too;  had  missed  him  and  whistled  for  him  re- 
peatedly. 

"Dinner  is  late  enough,"  he  grumbled,  as  he 
took  his  seat  at  the  foot  of  the  table. 

"Hush!  Testy  will  hear  you!"  exclaimed  his 
sisters. 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  she  hear  me?"  he  asked. 

"  Testy  doesn't  like  criticism,"  answered  Myra. 

"  Neither  do  any  of  us,  but  we  have  to  put  up 
with  it  occasionally." 

"Where  is  Rebecca?"  asked  Evelyn.  "She 
is  such  a  trial!  We  ask  only  a  few  things  of 
her,  but  she  makes  no  attempt  to  comply  with 
our  wishes.  I  am  sure  she  is  no  kin  to  us  at  all. 
As  a  family  all  of  us  are  prompt." 

"  LiP  Marse  Tom  useter  f ergit  sometime,  spe- 


204  The  Shorn  Lamb 

cial  when  he  done  fill  up  on  cawn  pone  an'  but- 
termilk not  so  long  befo',"  said  Aunt  Testy, 
coming  into  the  dining  room  in  time  to  hear  Miss 
Evelyn's  remark  concerning  the  promptitude  of 
the  Taylors. 

"Father  used  to  be  strict  enough  with  us 
when  we  were  children  about  being  on  time," 
said  Myra.  "I  remember  very  well  we  were 
allowed  no  butter  for  breakfast  unless  we  got  in 
our  seats  before  the  last  stroke  of  eight.  But  he 
seems  to  be  simply  possessed  by  this  wretched 
child.  What  he  sees  in  her  I  can't  imagine  — 
ugly,  scrawny,  little  black  thing!" 

"He  sees  his  own  flesh  an'  blood  in  her— 
that's  what  Marse  Bob  sees!  She  ain't  no  po' 
kin,  neither,"  exclaimed  Aunt  Test}r,  indigna- 
tion in  every  curve  of  her  comfortable  person. 
She  put  the  platter  of  fried  chicken  down  in 
front  of  Spot  and  flounced  out  of  the  room.  In 
a  moment  she  was  back  bearing  a  tray  of  vege- 
tables which  she  placed  on  the  table  without  a 
word,  but  with  ominous  mutterings  proceeding 
from  her  chest,  like  rumblings  of  thunder  pre- 
saging a  storm. 

'Yonder  she  air  now!"  cried  Aunt  Testy, 
looking  out  of  the  window.  "  Jes'  a-runnin'  fer 
dear  life  —  but  Gawd  he'p  us  if  Doctor  ain't 
a-runnin'  arfter  her.  He's  gone  mad!  I's  sho* 


Spottswood  Capitulates        205 

he's  gone  mad!  Doctor  am  too  proudified  ter 
run  'less'n  he  done  gone  an'  got  bit  by  a  mad 
dog.  Look  at  him  jes'  a-jumpin'  up  an'  actin' 
lak  a  pup!  Lawd  love  us,  Marse  Spot,  go  'ten' 
ter  Doctor!  Don't  set  thar  an'  let  that  po'  liF 
Beck  baby  git  all  bit  ter  pieces." 

Spottswood  jumped  from  his  chair  and  rushed 
to  the  front  porch  in  time  to  see  his  dignified 
old  setter  roll  on  the  grass  with  Rebecca  in  a 
final  romp.  For  a  moment  he  was  frozen  to 
the  spot  with  horror.  His  dog  was  mad  and 
was  going  to  tear  the  child  to  pieces !  Poor  little 
waif!  She  wasn't  such  a  bad  kid  after  all.  Of 
course  she  was  an  impostor,  but  no  doubt  she 
was  ignorant  of  it.  She  had  been  imposed  upon 
by  those  people  in  New  York  who  wanted  to  get 
rid  of  her.  This  flashed  through  S  potts  wood's 
mind  in  the  instant  that  he  stood  inactive.  Then 
he  dashed  down  the  steps  and  grabbed  his  dog 
by  the  collar,  dragging  him  from  Rebecca,  who 
lay  on  the  ground  looking  up  at  him  with  her 
great  eyes  full  of  laughter. 

Doctor  was  the  only  one  who  was  ashamed. 
He  looked  crestfallen  enough  at  being  caught 
by  his  master  romping.  With  a  loving  glance 
at  Rebecca  he  slunk  around  the  house,  his  proud 
tail  for  once  between  his  legs.  Had  he  been  dis- 
covered stealing  chickens  or  devouring  the  birds 


206  The  Shorn  Lamb 

after  a  day's  shooting  he  could  not  have  looked 
more  guilty. 

Without  a  word  Spottswood  went  back  to 
his  dinner. 

"Hurry  up,  honey,  baby!  Yo'  dinner  am 
ready  an'  waitin'  an'  Miss  Myra  an'  Miss  Eve- 
lyn air  lookin'  moughty  stiff  backed,"  Aunt 
Testy  called  from  the  porch  in  a  sibilant  whis- 
per. "  Run  take  off  yo'  bonnet,  chil',  an'  smoove 
yo'  har." 

Rebecca  raced  to  her  room,  intent  on  pro- 
pitiating the  aunts.  It  was  too  bad  to  be  late 
to  dinner  on  the  very  day  that  she  had  planned 
to  be  so  virtuous.  She  untied  the  strings  and 
tried  to  take  off  her  bonnet,  but  Aunt  Pearly 
Gates'  device  was  working  to  perfection.  There 
was  no  removing  the  bonnet  without  first  un- 
plaiting  the  rope  of  hair.  She  made  a  desper- 
ate attempt  to  untie  the  piece  of  yarn  with  which 
the  end  of  her  braid  was  fastened,  but  the  curly 
tendrils  of  her  hair  had  wrapped  themselves 
around  the  yarn  and  remove  it  she  could  not. 
Her  fingers  seemed  to  be  all  thumbs  and  she 
fumbled  desperately.  Grabbing  up  the  scissors, 
she  cut  off  the  end.  Surely,  the  unplaiting 
would  not  be  so  difficult  now!  But  it  would  not 
undo,  no  matter  how  hard  she  tried.  Rolling  on 
the  ground  with  Doctor  had  put  tangles  in  the 


Spottswood  Capitulates        207 

unruly  curls  that  would  take  untiring  patience 
to  unravel.  Desperate  at  the  delay,  Rebecca 
grabbed  the  scissors  again  and  cut  the  braid 
close  up  to  the  buttonholes  in  the  bonnet. 

"The  Gordian  knot!"  she  cried  as  she  tossed 
the  bonnet  and  braid  onto  the  bed  and  without 
looking  in  the  glass  to  view  the  havoc  she  had 
made,  she  flew  down  the  steps  and  slid  into  her 
place  at  the  table. 

Spottswood,  being  the  carver,  usually  helped 
Rebecca  to  whatever  meat  he  was  serving  with- 
out addressing  her  and  without  even  glancing 
at  her,  but  on  that  day  he  could  not  resist  a  curi- 
osity he  felt  to  look  at  the  young  person  who 
had  succeeded  in  breaking  through  the  dignity 
of  his  dog.  It  came  to  his  mind,  too,  that  per- 
haps, being  a  child,  Rebecca  might  like  a  giz- 
zard. He  started  to  put  one  on  her  plate,  but 
changed  his  mind.  He  helped  her  plentifully, 
however,  and  then  raised  his  eyes  arid  for  the 
first  time  since  the  girl  had  come  to  Mill  House 
he  looked  at  her  fairly  and  squarely.  Then  a 
strange  thing  came  to  pass:  Spottswood  Taylor 
burst  out  into  uncontrollable  laughter. 

The  Misses  Taylor  were  astonished.  They 
had  never  heard  Spot  laugh  so  heartily.  An 
occasional  grim  smile  was  about  all  they  had 
ever  known  him  indulge  in.  They,  too,  had 


208  The  Shorn  Lamb 

made  it  a  rule  not  to  look  at  their  so-called  niece 
unless  it  was  positively  necessary  to  correct  her 
about  something.  Coldly  to  avert  their  eyes 
seemed  to  them  to  be  the  most  aristocratic  way 
to  express  their  disapproval.  This  getting  late 
to  dinner  was  cause  enough  to  have  them  with- 
draw the  honor  of  their  glances  for  a  long 
period.  When  their  brother  burst  into  such 
merriment  they  involuntarily  looked  in  the  direc- 
tion in  which  he  was  looking. 

Then  the  ladies  laughed,  too,  though  not  quite 
so  uproariously  as  their  brother.  Rebecca's  ap- 
pearance was  certainly  funny.  Her  hair,  where 
she  had  cut  the  braid,  was  standing  up  in  a 
most  ferocious-looking  bush. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  putting  her  hand  up  to  her 
hair,  and  trying  to  smooth  down  the  unruly 
bush,  "  I  was  in  such  a  hurry  I  had  to  cut  it  off," 
she  faltered.  "It  was  plaited  through  button- 
holes in  my  bonnet.  Aunt  Pearly  Gates  fixed 
it  for  me,  so  I  could  keep  on  my  bonnet  and  try 
to  get  to  be  more  Taylorish  in  my  complexion. 
I  hated  so  to  be  late  for  dinner,  but  my  stomach 
was  slow  to-day — owing  to — owing  to— 

She  could  say  no  more.  This  was  a  new 
thing,  to  be  the  onlv  one  who  was  not  laughing. 
It  was  very  uncomfortable,  too,  to  be  so  funhy 
looking  that  persons  who  went  for  months  with- 


Spottswood  Capitulates         209 

out  cracking  a  smile  should  be  sending  forth 
peal  after  peal  of  laughter.  It  was  all  she  could 
do  to  keep  back  the  tears. 

Aunt  Testy  came  in  and  with  one  glance  at 
Rebecca  she  gave  a  deep  chuckle. 

"Good  Gawd,  honey  baby,  what  yo'  done 
did  ter  yo'se'f  ?  You  looks  lak  that  there  eat- 
'em-alive  wiT  man  in  the  circus." 

Rebecca  took  a  tight  hold  on  her  emotions 
and  to  her  mind  came  the  thought:  "Now  is 
the  time  for  me  to  show  .1  can  take  a  joke  on 
myself!  I  have  been  laughing  at  people  all  the 
time,  now  I  know  how  it  is  to  be  laughed  at.  I 
won't  cry!  I  won't" 

A  little  teary  smile  came  to  her  countenance 
at  her  stern  bidding  and  then  she  grinned  a  wee 
bit,  and  then  the  ridiculousness  of  the  whole 
thing  got  the  better  of  her  and  she,  too,  burst 
out  laughing. 

"Anyhow,  they  are  going  to  forget  to  jump 
me  for  being  late,"  she  decided. 

She  reckoned  without  knowledge  of  the  sense 
of  duty  on  which  her  aunts  prided  themselves, 
however.  As  soon  as  they  could  control  their 
laughter  they  started  in  on  Rebecca. 

'You  are  very  late  for  dinner,"  admonished 
Mvra. 

m 

"  We  ask  very  little  of  you  in  the  way  of  duty 


210  The  Shorn  Lamb 

and  obedience,"  continued  Evelyn,  "  and  getting 
to  dinner  in  time  is  not  much  of  a  demand, 
surely,  for  us  to  make  on  one  in — in  your 
position." 

"Certainly  not!"  chimed  in  Myra. 

'You  have  succeeded  in  ruining  what  appear- 
ance you  may  have  had,"  Evelyn  kept  on,  in  her 
sanctimonious  drawl. 

'Yes  —  I  mean  yes  ma'm,"  Rebecca  an- 
swered meekly.  "It  is  too  bad  —  I  mean  tow 
bad  —  I  got  so  occupied —  I  did  not  know  it  was 
getting  late  —  " 

:'You  never  see  my  sister  or  me  late  for  a 
meal,"  Myra  interrupted. 

"Oh,  hell!  Why  don't  you  women  let  the 
kid  alone?"  Spot  broke  out  in  a  loud  voice  that 
made  his  sisters  and  Rebecca  jump  and  Aunt 
Testy  almost  drop  the  apple  dumpling  she  was 
bringing  in  from  the  kitchen.  "  Don't  you  want 
a  gizzard,  Rebecca?" 

Rebecca  could  not  speak  for  emotion,  but  she 
silently  held  out  her  plate  for  what  seemed  to 
her  a  sacred  gizzard.  This  time  her  uncle  looked 
at  her  squarely  and  searchingly.  In  the  eyes 
of  the  child  he  saw  an  expression  that  reminded 
him  vaguely  of  Doctor.  It  was  one  of  trusting 
devotion. 

As  for  Rebecca,  she  could  gladly  have  stood 


Spottswood  Capitulates        211 

on  her  head  in  the  corner  and  swallowed  the 
gizzard  whole,  had  her  uncle  required  it  of  her. 
It  seemed  a  profanation  to  eat  the  gizzard.  She 
had  at  last  made  some  kind  of  a  dent  in  Spot's 
armor!  As  for  the  aunts,  they  would  per- 
haps come  around  in  time.  She  had  the  love  of 
Doctor  and  the  championship  of  Spottswood — 
great  victories  to  have  won  in  one  day! 

Rebecca  had  cut  off  her  scalp  lock  so  close 
that  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  shingle  her 
head.  Bobbing  was  out  of  the  question,  and  so 
Aunt  Evelyn  shingled  on  one  side  and  Aunt 
Myra  on  the  other.  Their  methods  varied  some- 
what and  the  result  was  rather  lopsided.  In 
trying  to  even  things  up  they  cut  closer  and 
closer  until  Rebecca  began  to  feel  uneasy  about 
her  very  scalp. 

The  ladies  were  much  pleased  with  their 
prowess  as  barbers  and  complimented  themselves 
inwardly  on  their  strict  adherence  to  duty.  Cer- 
tainly it  was  no  pleasure  to  them  to  have  to 
handle  such  black  hair. 

Rebecca  thanked  them  humbly  for  having 
shorn  her  so  successfully  and  hoped  God  would 
really  temper  the  winter  to  her  shingled  pate. 
She  was  quite  aghast  when  she  peeped  in  her 
mirror  after  the  shearing  and  saw  her  funny 
cropped  head. 


212  The  Shorn  Lamb 

"Starting  to  school,  too,  next  month!  What 
will  they  think  of  me?"  she  asked  herself. 
"Well,  it  doesn't  really  make  much  difference; 
because  Doctor  loves  me  and  Uncle  Spot  gave 
me  a  gizzard." 


Chapter  14 
A  VERY  DARK  INCUBATOR 

The  next  morning  Rebecca  hurried  through 
her  dressing.  She  had  scrubbed  her  head  when 
she  took  her  evening  bath,  having  a  vague  idea 
that  much  watering  might  make  her  hair  grow, 
as  she  had  heard  Spot  complain  that  rainy 
weather  made  the  weeds  flourish.  But,  alas! 
morning  revealed  only  a  close-cropped  black 
scalp,  with  here  and  there  a  tiny  curl  where  the 
aunts'  shears  had  missed  a  stray  lock. 

Smiling  rather  solemnly,  Rebecca  ran  down  to 
breakfast  in  a  hurry.  Never  again  would  she 
be  late!  She  stopped  a  minute  to  pet  Doctor, 
who  was  standing  with  his  head  in  the  front 
door.  He  received  her  caresses  with  some  em- 
barrassment, but  submitted  with  a  bored  air. 
She  slipped  into  her  place  just  as  Aunt  Evelyn 
asked  the  blessing. 

All  through  breakfast  Rebecca  endeavored  to 
catch  Spottswood's  eye.  He  did  not  look  up 
from  his  plate  or  deign  to  speak  a  word  to  her. 
The  aunts  were  still  angry  at  the  horrid  word 
their  brother  had  flung  at  them  the  day  before 

213 


214  The  Shorn  Lamb 

and  haughtily  refused  to  address  a  remark  to 
him.  Major  Taylor  had  breakfasted  early  and 
gone  to  the  factory,  so  breakfast  was  a  silent 
feast. 

As  soon  as  possible  Rebecca  made  her  way 
sadly  to  Aunt  Pearly  Gates'  cabin.  Nothing 
had  turned  out  as  she  had  planned.  She  had 
only  succeeded  in  angering  the  aunts  and  her 
uncle  had  slipped  back  into  silence  more  dense 
than  before.  Doctor's  love  appeared  not  to  have 
survived  the  night.  Her  hair,  in  which  she  had 
taken  a  secret  pride,  had  been  cut  off. 

Aunt  Pearly  Gates  listened  to  Rebecca's  trou- 
bles with  deep  sympathy.  "Well,  honey  baby, 
things  ain't  so  bad  as  you  think.  Yo'  hair'll  be 
growin'  so  fas'  you  cyarn't  keep  up  with  it  an' 
befo'  you  know  it  you'll  have  another  crap. 
Now  you  can  fix  it  yo'se'f.  You  don't  look  so 
bad  with  short  bar  lak  some  'cause  you  is  got 
a  pretty  haid.  Bless  me  if'n  I  don't  think  it 
looks  kinder  lak  Lil'  Marse  Tom's  haid.  Ain't 
none  er  them  noticed  that?" 

"  None  of  them  ever  notice  anything  about  me 
but  Grandfather  and  he  is  so  busy  with  the  fac- 
tory just  now  I  haven't  seen  him.  He  doesn't 
know  what  has  happened  to  me  yet." 

"Well,  I'll  be  boun',  he'll  have  his  joke  on 
you,  but  he  won't  let  nobody  else  pick  on  you." 


A  Very  Dark  Incubator       215 

"What  I  mind  most  is  Doctor  and  Uncle 
Spot  —  just  when  I  thought  I  had  them  liking 
me  a  little." 

"  Lawd  love  you,  honey  chil',  that  ain't  nothin' 
ter  be  a  worryin'  yo'  po'  haid  about.  Doctor 
air  a  peculiar  animule,  jes'  lak  some  men  folks. 
He  air  gonter  be  runnin'  arfter  you,  come  night 
time,  jes'  so  you  don't  'pear  too  anxious  lak. 
You  jes'  go  by  him  with  yo'  nose  up  in  the  air 
an'  he'll  be  breakin'  his  neck  ter  ketch  up  with 
you." 

"But  Uncle  Spot!" 

"He  don't  worry  me  none.  I  been  layin*  up 
here  seein'  too  many  springs  a-comin'  ter  be 
botherin'  my  haid  about  po'  Marse  Spot.  He 
done  showed  he  got  a  sof  spot  an'  the  winter 
in  he  heart  air  a-breakin'  up.  He  mought  freeze 
up  off 'n  on  agin,  but  the  spring  sunshine  air  sho' 
ter  thaw  him  out  agin.  Marse  Spot's  redemp- 
tion air  as  sho'  as  springtime." 

Aunt  Pearly  Gates  stopped  knitting  for  a 
moment  and  looked  keenly  at  the  girl.  "  I  got  a 
s'prise  fer  you,  honey  chil',"  she  said,  with  a 
mysterious  smile. 

"Oh,  that's  nice!"  answered  Rebecca,  politely. 
It  would  take  a  wonderful  surprise  indeed  to 
lighten  the  gloom  that  enveloped  her  soul. 

'Tain't   no   common   s'prise,    an'   it's    been 


216  The  Shorn  Lamb 

a-keepin'  me  busy  all  night.    Fact  is,  I  'low  I 
is  got  'bout  fifteen  s'prises  fer  you." 

"Fifteen!  Why  Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  what 
can  it  be?" 

"Well,  I  done  hatched  out  in  the  night. 
Fo'teen  of  'em  air  done  come  th'ough  an'  I  hear 
a  In"  soun*  under  the  kivers  that  done  give  me 
a  feelin'  that  the  las'  an'  the  fifteenth  air  been 
a  bawn." 

The  old  woman  put  her  hand  carefully  under 
the  quilt  and  drew  forth  a  little  black  chicken. 
A  bit  of  shell  was  stuck  to  its  head,  giving  it 
a  comical  resemblance  to  a  clown  in  a  white  cap. 
She  raised  the  corner  of  an  old  woolen  skirt, 
covering  a  box  on  a  chair  beside  her  bed  and 
immediately  a  deafening  peeping  began. 

"  Oh,  please  let  me  hold  it,"  begged  Rebecca, 
clapping  her  hands  in  delight.  "I  never  saw 
anything  so  cute  in  my  life.  I  didn't  even  know 
you  were  —  er — er — setting,  Aunt  Pearly 
Gates." 

The  old  woman  smiled,  delighted  that  her  sur- 
prise had  dispelled  the  sadness  depicted  on  the 
child's  face. 

"Let  the  liP  chick'n  git  kinder  useter  livin* 
fust,  honey  baby,  befo'  you  take  ter  fondlin'  it; 
then  you  kin  hoi'  it  all  you  want  jes'  so's  you 
don't  squeeze  it  none.  I  'lowed  you  didn'  know 


A  Very  Dark  Incubator       217 

nothin'  'bout  my  havin'  gone  ter  settin'.  I  kep' 
mighty  quiet  'bout  it,  'cause  I  is  kinder  tender 
in  my  feelin's  when  I's  a-settin'.  I  don't  want 
nobody  ter  be  a  arskin'  me  how  many  eggs  I's 
got  in  the  baid  an'  then  kinder  a-holdin'  it  over 
me  when  I  don't  have  good  luck  'bout  the  num- 
ber er  chick'ns  I  hatches  out.  I  ain't  a  gonter 
take  the  blame  er  any  no-'count  rooster." 

"Did  you  have  good  luck  this  time?" 

"I  couldn't  er  had  better!  The  good  Lawd 
hisse'f  couldn't  er  hatched  mo'n  fifteen  chick'ns 
outer  fifteen  aigs.  You  kin  hear  fer  yo'se'f 
how  lively  they  is,  too.  They's  already  begun  to 
peck  a  liF  cawn  meal  dough.  Po'  UP  things! 
It  do  seem  kinder  hard  fer  them  never  ter  know 
they  own  mother." 

"But  you  are  good  to  them  and  love  them," 
said  Rebecca,  peeping  under  the  old  skirt  and 
trying  to  count  the  fluffy  moving  balls  of 
feathers. 

"Yes,  I  loves  'em  some,  but  I  ain't  no  sho' 
'nough  hen  an'  I  ain't  able  ter  take  'em  out  do's 
an'  larn  'em  how  ter  scratch  up  worms.  When 
all's  told,  I  ain't  nothin'  mo'n  a  incomebaker. 
I  furnishes  animule  heat  same  as  a  hen,  an'  I 
tu'ns  the  aigs  every  day  same  as  a  hen,  but  I 
stops  short  er  cluckin'  same  as  a  incomebaker." 

"Maybe  I  could  learn  to  cluck  and  take  the 


218  The  Shorn  Lamb 

dear  little  things  out  doors  and  teach  them  how 
to  scratch,"  suggested  Rebecca,  eagerly. 

"  Sho'  you  could ! "  delightedly.  "  Brer  John- 
son don't  have  no  time  ter  give  ter  the  chick'ns 
mo'n  jes'  ter  mix  up  a  lil*  dough  fer  them  time 
an*  agin.  The  truf  er  the  matter  is,  this  way  I 
has  er  goin'  ter  settin*  an'  hatchin'  is  right  weari- 
some ter  Brer  Johnson.  If  he  wa'n't  a  saint 
on  yearth  he'd  a  broke  up  my  nes'  long  befo* 
this.  He  makes  out  it  don't  make  no  min'  ter 
him  when  I  gits  a  notion  I'd  like  a  settin'  er 
aigs  an'  he  goes  an'  fetches  'em  fer  me  as  meek 
as  a  lamb,  but  it  kinder  goes  aginst  his  natur' 
ter  have  me  so  took  up  with  a  tu'nin'  aigs  an' 
sech  when  he's  a-tryin'  ter  read  the  scripture  ter 
me.  He  gits  kinder  recumciled  when  the 
chick'ns  gits  'bout  fryin'  size.  I  ain't  never  been 
no  hand  ter  hatch  no  chick'ns  in  late  August 
er  early  September  'cause  they's  kinder  mean 
months  ter  raise  a  family,  but  this  time  I  got  ter 
thinkin'  how  nice  it  would  be  if  I  could  perjuce 
some  fryin'  size  long  'bout  Christmus." 

"Oh,  but  Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  you  couldn't 
ever  eat  these  precious  little  cute  chicks!  Why, 
it  would  be  just  like  cannibals  to  do  such  a 
thing.  They  are  pretty  near  your  own  flesh 
and  blood." 

The  old  negress  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 


A  Very  Dark  Incubator       219 

"It  do  seem  kinder  hard-hearted,  but  I  low 
chick'ns  wa'  put  on  this  green  yearth  fer  the 
'spress  puppose  er  landin'  in  the  f ryin'  pan. 
Every  chick'n  what  the  good  Gawd  don't  expect 
sooner  er  later  ter  be  et  as  a  chick'n  he  done 
foreordained  ter  be  et  as  a  aig.  The  chick'ns 
ain't  got  no  choice  in  the  matter.  They  better 
be  glad  if  it  so  happens  a  good  cook  has  the 
finish  of  'em  an'  they  don't  Ian'  on  some  po' 
white  folks'  table,  all  soaked  up  in  grease  the 
way  mos'  of  'em  has  er  cookin*. 

"But  suppose  the  egg  is  never  eaten  and 
never  hatches,  Aunt  Pearly  Gates — just  gets 
to  be  rotten.  What  do  you  think  the  good  Lord 
is  thinkin'  about  when  he  lets  that  happen?" 

"Well,  honey  chil',  I  wouldn't  call  myse'f 
much  of  a  Christian  if  I  blamed  the  rotten  aigs 
on  the  Almighty.  Rotten  aigs  air  the  plain 
doin's  of  the  debble,  the  debble  'long  with  the 
keerlessness  er  folks.  If  the  folks  hadn't  er  been 
keerless  the  debble  couldn't  er  got  in  his  work, 
either." 

"How  many — er — er — families  have  you 
raised,  Aunt  Pearly  Gates?" 

"I  done  los*  track  of  them  long  time  ago," 
chuckled  the  old  woman.  "I  reckon  I  done 
partaken  of  the  nature  of  a  hen  in  mo'  ways 
than  one.  I  'low  a  hen  fergits  'bout  her  las' 


220  The  Shorn  Lamb 

settin'  by  the  time  she  gits  started  on  another. 
I  been  laid  up  in  the  baid  nigh  onto  twenty 
years.  At  the  fust  beginning  it  seemed  ter  me 
lak  I  couldn't  stan'  it.  I  done  been  a  busy, 
active  nigger  all  my  time  an'  fer  it  ter  fall  ter 
me  jes'  ter  spen'  my  time  a  layin'  up  in  the 
baid  wa'  so  hard  I  pretty  nigh  los'  my  'ligion. 
I  couldn't  see  why  the  good  Gawd  didn't  sen' 
the  'fliction  on  some  ooman  what  took  it  as  a 
treat  ter  lay  up  in  the  baid.  The  idea  er  knittin' 
an'  tattin'  ain't  come  ter  me  at  that  time,  but 
I  jes'  lay  up  an'  fretted  an'  grumbled.  I  got 
took  bad  at  Christmus  an'  come  Feb'ua'y  I  wa' 
so  tired  er  myself  that  I  nigh  went  crazy.  It 
wa'  a  late  winter  that  year — coF  weather  com- 
mencin'  on  about  Feb'ua'y,  an'  that  wa'  a  sho' 
sign  er  late  spring.  I  had  always  been  a  great 
ban'  at  raisin'  chick'ns  an'  I  got  ter  worryin' 
over  how  late  the  hens  would  be  a  goin'  ter 
settin'  owin*  ter  the  col'  weather  an  then  the 
thought  corned  ter  me  that  I  mought  take  the 
place  of  a  hen.  I  got  Si  ter  bring  me  in  a 
settin'  an'  sho'  'nough  I  wa'  jes'  as  good  a  hen 
as  you  kin  fin'.  That  year  me'n  Brer  Johnson 
had  fryin'  size  chick'ns  ter  sell  ter  the  quality 
long  befo'  anybody  roun'  these  parts." 

"How  many  times  do  you  set  a  year,  Aunt 
Pearly  Gates?" 


A  Very  Dark  Incubator       221 

"It  jes'  depen's!  Sometimes  I  sets  about 
three  times  an'  sometimes  I  don't  git  a  notion 
mo'n  every  six  months.  One  time  I  got  greedy 
an'  set  on  about  thirty  aigs.  I  'lowed  that  I  wa' 
bigger'n  mos'  hens  an'  I  might  do  double  duty, 
but  I  wa'  punished  fer  my  graspin'  ways.  I 
overlaid  some  of  them  one  night  in  my  sleep 
an'  made  sech  a  mess  as  never  wa'  seen  an'  po' 
Brer  Johnson  wa'  nigh  on  ter  goin'  crazy  tryin' 
ter  git  things  cleaned  up.  'Tain't  never  right 
to  go  out  of  nachel  ways.  'Tain't  nachel  fer  a 
hen  ter  set  on  mo'n  fifteen  or  eighteen  aigs,  an' 
it  ain't  nachel  fer  a  ol'  bedridden  ooman  ter 
try  ter  outdo  a  hen  at  her  own  business." 

Rebecca  laughed  merrily  and  the  old  woman 
looked  pleased.  She  had  been  trying  to  make 
her  laugh. 

"The  mos'es'  trouble  I  has  with  this  settin* 
business  is  gittin'  holt  er  the  right  aigs.  Co'se 
Si  does  the  best  he  kin.  He  ain't  no  nachel 
chicken  raiser  an'  he  has  ter  give  mo*  of  his 
time  ter  Marse  Taylor's  mill.  Sometimes  he 
has  bad  luck  with  his  aigs  an*  has  ter  go  git 
some  off'n  the  neighbors.  Then  I  fin's  some- 
times that  I  been  a  settin'  fer  three  weeks  on 
aigs  that  ain't  got  no  mo'  virtue  in  'em  than 
darnin'  gourds.  I  takes  mos'  pleasure  in  Brer 
Johnson's  pussonel  aigs.  He  laughs  at  me 


The  Shorn  Lamb 

'bout  my  bein'  so  proudified  'bout  what  I  sets 
on,  but  I  can't  help  it.  They's  as  much  dif- 
funce  in  aigs  as  they  is  in  folks.  I  min'  one  time 
I  got  holt  er  some  aigs  from  ol'  Aunt  Peachy's 
gran'son  from  yonder  acrost  the  river.  I  mis- 
trusted 'em  from  the  beginnin',  an'  sho'  'nough 
you  never  seed  sech  a  parlous  lot  as  them  lil' 
chick'ns.  In  the  fust  place  only  'bout  half  er 
them  hatched  an'  then  what  did  come  through, 
come  through  at  all  kin's  of  odd  times.  I 
was  a  deliverin'  those  lil'  chick'ns  for  two  or 
three  days.  Some  er  them  never  did  grow 
no  feathers  an'  some  er  them  didn't  have  they 
full  'lowance  er  toes.  One  er  them  chick'ns 
what  wa'  allowed  ter  grow  up  inter  a  hen  wa' 
all  time  crowin'  jes'  lak  a  rooster  an'  one 
er  the  roosters  had  a  rubber  neck  jes'  lak  a 
gobbler,  an'  a  funny  fringe  er  feathers  'roun' 
the  top  er  his  haid.  He  sho'  did  'semble 
ol  'Aunt  Peachy.  He  had  her  grabby  ways, 
too.  When  Si  killed  him  an'  tried  ter  bile  him 
tender  I  couldn't  eat  a  mouthful  of  him.  I  kep' 
on  a  thinkin'  er  Aunt  Peachy  an'  the  good 
Gawd  knows,  while  I  don't  want  ter  say  nothin' 
mean  'bout  man  or  beast,  if  I  had  ter  eat  human 
flesh,  I  wouldn't  be  a  choosin'  to  eat  a  piece  of 
ol'  Aunt  Peachy." 

Rebecca  laughed  merrily.    "  I  fancy  old  Aunt 


A  Very  Dark  Incubator       223 

Peachy  must  have  come  out  of  one  of  the  eggs 
the  devil  and  carelessness  had  a  hand  in,"  she 
suggested. 

Aunt  Pearly  Gates  chuckled. 

"Ain't  it  the  truf?  Now  I  ought'n  ter  be 
a  savin'  that  either.  How  kin  we  tell?  Aunt 
Peachy  done  always  had  it  in  fer  me'n  Si;  but 
then,  she  helt  somethin'  aginst  all  the  folks, 
white  an'  black,  on  this  side  the  ribber.  I  done 
mistrus'ed  Marse  Bob's  jedgment  some  when 
he  'lowed  you  ter  go  make  frien's  with  the  folks 
at  The  Hedges." 

"Oh,  but  Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  what  would  I 
do  without  them?  They  are  my  best  an'  only 
friends,  besides  you  and  all  the  good  colored 
people  over  on  this  side.  Mr.  Philip  Boiling 
was  really  responsible  for  my  getting  here  in 
good  order,  and  he  is  the  loveliest  person  I  ever 
saw.  His  mother  is  mighty  kind  and  pleasant, 
and  there  is  something  about  her  that  kind  of 
breaks  my  heart.  Betsy  is  a  peach,  a  nice,  sound 
peach,  without  a  single  speck  on  it  and  never  a 
worm  on  the  inside,  and  Jo  is  —  well,  Jo  is 
improving.  He  is  about  the  only  boy  I  ever 
knew,  and  I  must  say  he  is  some  fun  to  play 
around  with.  He  looks  a  little  like  his  funny, 
fat  old  father,  but  I  am  sure  he  will  never  be 
like  him.  I  have  taken  hold  of  him  in  time." 


224  The  Shorn  Lamb 

Aunt  Pearly  Gates  laughed  at  the  grown-up 
manner  of  her  little  friend. 

"Well,  I  have,  and  Betsy  says  Jo  doesn't 
even  mind  washing  his  ears  as  much  as  he 
used  to." 

This  reform  amused  Rebecca's  fond  mentor 
immensely.  "  Sho',  honey,  you  is  jes'  like  young 
Marse  Tom!" 


Rebecca  had  forgotten  all  her  woes  by  now. 
Aunt  Pearly  Gates  beamed  happily  on  the 
happy  little  girl. 

"What  did  you  make  out  to  think  er  ol' 
Aunt  Peachy,  honey?" 

"  Why,  I  can't  make  up  my  mind  that  she  is  a 
real  person.  She  looks  so  like  a  queer  old  ba- 
boon Daddy  and  I  used  to  see  at  the  zoo.  Just 
as  I  never  could  decide  that  the  old  baboon 
was  not  a  person,  so  I  can't  quite  believe  Aunt 
Peachy  is  one.  She  mumbles  the  strangest 
things  while  I  am  there  and  keeps  looking  at  me 
with  her  eyes  shining  like  a  rat's.  Her  eyes 
are  not  a  bit  like  a  baboon's.  All  monkey 
people  have  sad,  soft  eyes.  No  matter  how  mis- 
chievous they  are,  they  always  have  a  kind  of 
mournful  expression  as  though  they  had  been 
kind  of  cheated  in  not  having  souls." 

'You  say  she  keeps  a  mumblin'  things  while 
you  is  aroun'?"  asked  Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  a 
troubled  expression  on  her  kind  old  face. 

'*  Yes,  and  one  time  she  had  a  piece  of  putty 

225 


226  The  Shorn  Lamb 

in  her  hands  and  she  kept  rolling  it  around  and 
working  at  it  kind  of  like  the  sculptors  I  used 
to  know  in  New  York  do  when  they  are  model- 
ing something." 

"You  mean  a  makin'  a  graben  image?" 

"Perhaps!" 

"Well,  Gawd  help  us,  then!"  Great  tears 
rolled  down  the  wrinkled  cheeks  of  the  old 
woman. 

"Why,  Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  what  on  earth  is 
the  matter?" 

"Nothin',  chil',  nothin'  'tall.  I's  jes'  a  ol' 
Afgan  fool  when  all  is  tol'.  I  tries  ter  be  a 
Christian  ooman  an*  a  true  believer  an'  mos'  the 
time  I  feels  the  love  er  the  Almighty  an'  his 
blessed  Son  enfoldin'  me.  I  says  ober  ter 
myse'f:  'He  what  dwelleth  in  the  secret  places 
er  the  Mos'  High  shall  abide  under  the  shadow 
er  the  Almighty.'  An'  then  that  part  what 
somehow  kinder  seems  lak  it  wa'  writ  'special  fer 
me:  'He  shall  cover  thee  with  His  feathers  an* 
under  His  wings  shalt  thou  trus'.'  I  reckon  I 
takes  on  when  I  hears  'bout  Aunt  Peachy  'cause 
I  wa'  brung  up  ter  be  scairt  er  her.  She  been 
a  weavin*  her  spells  in  this  county  fer  mo'n  a 
hun'erd  years.  My  mammy  befo'  me  wa'  scairt 
er  her  an'  my  gran'mammy  befo'  her,  though 
Aunt  Peachy  wa'n't  mo'n  a  liT  black  slip  er  a 


A  Fearsome  Story  227 

gal    'way    back    in   my    gran'mammy's    time." 
"What  kind  of  spells  does  she  weave?'  asked 
Rebecca,  incredulously. 

"Nobody  don't  know  perzactly.  She  air 
kinder  secret  'bout  it  an'  kinder  boastful.  Some- 
times she  make  out  they  ain't  nothin'  'tall  in  it 
an'  then  agin  she  kinder  give  out  in  a  sly  back- 
handed way  that  she  done  some  debblement  that 
they  ain't  no  undoin'.  When  I  got  took  so  bad 
twenty  year  ago  she  corned  here  ter  my  cabin 
an*  sot  up  yonder  an'  larf ed  at  me  an*  made  me 
think  she  done  cas'  a  spell  over  my  limbs  what 
made  'em  give  out  on  me.  In  my  Christian 
heart  I  know'd  she  wa'  a  lyin',  but  in  my  nigger 
heart  I  couldn't  help  kinder  b'lievin'  of  her. 

"  The  doctor  done  said  mo'n  likely  I'll  be  up 
an'  aroun'  agin,  but  Aunt  Peachy  done  put  her 
ban  on  that  an'  'lowed  I'm  laid  low  to  the  end 
o'  time.  Brer  Johnson  'ten'  lak  he  ain't  scairt 
er  her,  but  th'ain't  ary  nigger  in  these  parts 
what  ain't  kinder  squeamy  er  Aunt  Peachy." 
"Are  the  white  people  afraid  of  her,  too?" 
"Some  er  the  low-down  whites  is,  but  my 
folks  ain't  never  made  no  min'  over  her.  I 
reckon  ol'  Rolfe  Bollin'  air  scairt  er  her.  I 
don't  reckon  his  wife  air  scairt  er  her  'ceptin' 
the  way  she  mought  be  scairt  er  a  rattlesnake. 
I  ain't  never  been  no  ban'  fer  a  visitin'  over  the 


The  Shorn  Lamb 

ribber  eben  when  I  had  the  use  er  my  limbs.  I 
done  been  ter  some  funerals  over  there,  an* 
that's  about  all,  but  I  done  hearn  tell  that  Aunt 
Peachy  air  got  a  chist  full  er  begalia  what  she 
casts  her  spells  with." 

"Begalia?" 

"  Yes,  honey  chil',  all  kin's  er  things  lak  they 
have  in  sassieties,  'cept'n'  instid  er  badges  an' 
ribbins  an'  sich  she  has  things  made  out'n  feath- 
ers an'  bones  an'  ol'  ha'r.  They  do  say  she  air 
got  a  old  dried-up  ban'  what  she  wares  aroun' 
an'  if 'n  she  ever  gits  close  enough  ter  touch  you 
with  it  she  an'  the  debble  air  got  you  in  they 
power." 

"How  funny!"  laughed  Rebecca.  "I  don't 
see  how  you  can  believe  such  foolishness,  Aunt 
Pearly  Gates." 

"I  don't  neither,  honey  chil',  but  they  is  a 
feelin'  way  down  in  me  that  spite  er  prayer  an' 
'zortin',  I  air  under  the  spell  er  Aunt  Peachy.  I 
ain't  never  let  her  know  it  an*  I  reckon  she's 
a  thinkin'  I'm  too  good  a  Christian  to  bother 
my  haid  about  her. 

"I  'member  when  I  wa'  a  gal  "bout  fifteen, 
one  hot  night  'bout  the  middle  er  summer  when 
the  wheat  crap  wa'  in  an'  the  late  taters  planted 
an'  the  'backer  wa'n't  big  enough  ter  s'po't  no 
worms  an*  wuck  done  slack  up  a  bit  on  the 


A  Fearsome  Story  229 

slaves  on  both  sides  er  the  ribber,  an'  somehow 
a  res'less  feelin'  done  got  a  holt  er  folks,  what 
with  the  heat  an*  a  big  moon  that  didn't  let  you 
git  no  res'  at  night  'cause  it  wa'  mos'  as  bright 
as  the  sun  an'  pretty  nigh  as  hot. 

"That's  vra'  in  ol'  Marse  Thomas'  time,  the 
paw  er  Marse  Bob.  Now  Marse  Thomas  wa' 
as  good  a  marster  as  they  wa'  in  Virginny,  but 
he  wa'  moughty  'ticular  'bout  one  thing;  he 
didn'  let  his  niggers  holt  no  meetin's  without'n 
they  wa'  helt  in  the  chu'ch  what  wa'  built  fer 
the  pu'pose,  an'  he  didn'  'low  none  er  us  ter  go 
traipsin'  orer  the  ribber,  'cept'n'  it  wa*  on  busi- 
ness er  his'n. 

"In  harvest  time  in  them  days  the  Boilings 
an'  Taylors  useter  help  one  another  out  by  lend- 
in'  hands  back  an'  fo'th,  but  it  ain't  never  been 
much  satisfaction  in  it.  Looks  lak  they  wa' 
allus  some  kinder  row  'bout  somethin'  arfter 
harvest,  even  in  them  days  when  the  families  wa' 
kinder  frien'ly.  The  niggers  didn't  mix  very 
well,  owin'  ter  ol'  Aunt  Peachy  an'  her  outland- 
ish ways.  She  wa'  a  turrible  lookin'  pusson, 
even  then,  an'  she  done  got  holt  er  blacks  an' 
whites  over  ter  The  Hedges  an'  ben'  'em  all 
ter  her  ways.  Rolfe  Boiling's  paw  wa'  one  er 
these  will-an'-they-won't  pussons  what  had  about 
as  much  git-up-an'-git  about  him  as  a  ol'  pump 


230  The  Shorn  Lamb 

what  air  los'  its  sucker  an'  Aunt  Peachy  didn't 
make  no  mo'  min'  ter  him  than  she  would  er  ter 
a  flea." 

The  old  woman  paused  a  moment  to  pick  up 
a  stitch  in  her  knitting. 

"There,  now,  I  done  drap  a  stitch!  That's 
'cause  I  air  doin'  wrong  a-talkin'  'bout  ol'  Aunt 
Peachy  an'  her  Mumbo  Jumbo  a  carryin'  on." 

"But,  Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  please  don't  stop. 
It  was  a  dark  night  —  no,  I  forgot,  the  moon 
was  shining  so  bright  it  was  almost  as  hot  as  the 
sun.  Usually  when  people  tell  about  something 
scary  it's  a  dark  night.  Please  tell  me!  What 
happened  on  that  hot  night?" 

"My  mammy  wa'  a  youngish  ooman  then  an' 
I  wa'  a  gal  o'  fifteen.  My  pappy  wa'  a  pow'f ul 
rovin'  man,  mo'n  half  Injun.  There  wa'n't 
nothin'  goin'  on  in  the  woods  my  pappy  didn't 
know  about.  He  wa'  all  time  gittin'  up  in  the 
night  an*  cropin'  out'n  the  cabin.  Mammy  wa' 
moughty  jealous  er  pappy,  though  I  don'  think 
she  had  no  reason  ter  be.  In  the  fus'  place 
Marse  Thomas  didn'  stan'  fer  no  carryin's  on 
in  the  quarters  an*  if'n  they  wa'  any  a  goin' 
on  they  wa'  alms  some  tell-tale-tit  ter  be 
infawmin'  'bout  it.  I  jes'  think  the  Injun  useter 
be  too  strong  in  him  sometimes  an'  he'd  be  fo'ced 
ter  answer  the  call." 


A  Fearsome  Story  231 

"Was  that  the  way  it  was  on  that  hot  moon- 
light night?"  asked  Rebecca,  who  was  afraid 
Aunt  Pearly  Gates  might  switch  off  from  her 
story  into  a  dissertation  concerning  heredity. 

"P'raps!  Anyhow,  I  woke  up  from  a  doze 
an'  pappy  wa'  gone  an'  mammy  wa'  a  standin* 
up  in  the  middle  er  the  flo'  in  her  yaller  cotton 
shift  an'  I  could  see  her  plain  as  day,  the  moon 
wa*  that  bright.  She  didn't  look  lak  mammy, 
somehow,  'cause  her  eyes  wa'  a  rollin'  lak  a 
res'less  young  filly's.  She  wa'  a  listenin'  ter 
somethin'  an'  I  never  said  nothin',  but  listened, 
too.  Away  off  yonder  you  could  hear  a  kinder 
hollow  boom!  boom!" 

"Like  soldiers  marching?" 

"No!  Not  like  soldiers — not  lak  anything  I 
ever  done  hearn  befo'  er  sence.  There  wa'  the 
boom  an'  a  kinder  hum  a'  keepin'  up  with  it,  jes* 
lak  bumbly  bees.  Mammy  kinder  snorted  an* 
'thout  payin'  no  'tention  ter  her  chilluns  she  jes' 
bulged  out'n  the  do'  an'  made  fer  the  woods.  I 
jumps  up  an*  starts  arfter  her.  I  ain't  got  no 
notion  wha'  she  a  goin',  but  I  'lowed  I  wa'n't  a 
gonter  stay  in  that  cabin  wif  nothin'  but  sleepin' 
chilluns  an'  the  air  all  full  er  that  gashly  boomin'. 

"Outside  you  could  hear  the  boomin'  plainer 
an'  the  hummin'  got  louder  an'  louder.  In  them 
days  the  woods  wa'  thick  'roun'  here.  Great 


232  The  Shorn  Lamb 

big  oaks  an'  chestnuts  wa'  crowded  clost  an* 
no  room  for  these  here  scrubby  fieF  pines  what 
air  a  takin'  the  country  nowadays.  The  trees 
grew  clost  ter  the  river's  aidge  an'  spread  up 
over  the  hills  plum  ter  the  mountings.  That 
there  hub  fact'ry  ain't  got  in  so  much  er  its 
wuck  a  destroyin*  of  forests  in  those  days,  though 
it  wa'  a  goin'  even  then  — " 

"And  on  that  hot  moonlight  night-    '  sug- 
gested Rebecca. 

"I  ain't  fergittin'.  On  that  hot  night  when 
mammy  done  flew  the  coop  in  her  yaller  shift 
I  started  right  arfter  her  —  she  a  cropin' 
through  the  woods  an*  me  a  slidin'  not  so  fur 
behind.  At  the  fust  beginning  I  wa'  a  thinkin' 
mammy  wa'  out  a  huntin*  pappy,  lak  she  done 
sometimes,  but  it  come  ter  me  that  she*  wa'n't 
a  huntin*  him  nor  no  man,  but  wa*  a  makin*  fer 
the  boom-a-laddy-boom  what  got  louder  an' 
closeter.  She  made  straight  fer  the  river,  where 
a  great  big  oak  tree  had  done  felled  acrost  the 
water,  makin'  what  we  calls  a  coon  bridge.  On 
beyant  this  tree  wa'  a  clearin'  with  only  a  few 
stragglin'  trees.  One  er  them  trees  wa*  hollow, 
owin'  ter  some  hunters  havin'  started  a  fire  down 
at  the  bottom  mos*  lakly  trying  ter  smoke  out 
a  coon  or  p'raps  a  possum.  It  stood  in  the 
clearin'  dead  and  ga'nt  an'  black.  Aunt  Peachy 


A  Fearsome  Story  233 

an'  some  er  her  men  folks  had  done  tacked  a  ol' 
horse  hide  oyer  that  there  hollow  in  the  tree  an' 
when  I  crope  up  behind  mammy  I  seen  what 
wa'  a  makin'  the  boom.  There  wa'  a  great  big 
black  man,  what  belonged  ter  the  Macons,  who 
lived  over  pretty  nigh  ter  the  mountings,  a 
beatin'  on  that  ol'  horse  hide,  same  as  a  drum. 
They  wa'  B  crowd  er  black  folks  from  planta- 
tions all  aroun*  hereabouts,  'bout  fifty  I  reckon 
all  tol',  an'  others  wa'  comin'  a  cropin'  through 
the  underbrush  same  as  mammy  an'  me. 

"Mos*  the  women  wa'  in  they  yaller  cotton 
shifts  same  as  mammy  an'  the  men  had  on  they 
shirts,  some  er  em',  an'  some  jes'  ol'  pants  what 
they  had  pulled  on.  Aunt  Peachy  wa'  standin' 
on  a  big  rock.  You  kin  see  that  rock  ter  this 
day  in  the  midst  er  that  parsture  down  on  the 
other  side  the  ribber.  If  you  could  er  seed  her 
that  night  you  could  git  some  idea  how  come 
I's  got  a  kinder  awesome  feelin'  fer  that  ol' 
nigger.  In  them  days  she  wa'  big.  You  couldn't 
never  beliere  it  when  you  sees  her  now  all  dried 
up  an'  pretty  nigh  ready  ter  blow  away,  but 
Aunt  Peachy  wa'  a  hefty  ooman  an'  as  straight 
as  a  pine  tree.  I  ain't  never  in  all  these  years 
been  able  ter  git  her  image  out'n  my  min'. 

"  If  there  is  sech  a  thing  as  a  she-debble  Aunt 
Peachy  am  her.  She  had  done  unwropped  her 


234  The  Shorn  Lamb 

plaits  an'  her  ha'r  wa'  a  standing  out  from  her 
haid  lak  a  bush  an'  she  didn't  have  on  a  rag  er 
clothes  savin'  beads  an'  she  had  string  on  string 
er  them,  made  out'n  all  kinds  er  things.  Some 
er  them  wa'  made  out  er  buttons  an'  bones,  ol' 
teeth  an'  the  lak.  She  had  on  shiny  bracelets 
on  her  arms  an'  laigs  made  out'n  brass  an'  tin. 
She  wa'  that  outlandish  looking  she'd  a  skeert 
the  Angel  Gabrul.  She  skeert  me  an'  still  I 
couldn't  run,  but  I  crope  closeter  an'  closeter 
until  I  wa'  right  against  her.  She  had  a  evil  eye 
an'  she  rolled  it  aroun'  on  me  an'  pierced  me 
through  an*  through  until  I  jes'  fell  on  my 
knees  all  of  a  trimble." 

"But  what  was  she  doing,  Aunt  Pearly 
Gates?  What  was  all  the  booming  an'  humming 
for?  Why  was  she  fixed  up  so  funny?" 

"I  wa'n't  sho',  honey  baby,  but  I  done  hearn 
whisperin's  goin'  'roun'  that  Aunt  Peachy  had 
some  kinder  cha'm-wuckin'  power  that  she  done 
got  straight  from  the  debble  hisse'f.  They  do 
say  she  had  it  an'  her  pappy  befo'  her  had  it  an' 
mebbe  her  gran'pappy — an'  some  er  them  beads 
an*  things  wa'  handed  down  ter  her  from 
Afgan  kings,  beads  an'  cha'm-wuckin'  bones  an' 
sich.  Anyhow,  she  done  got  all  the  niggers  fer 
miles  aroun'  skeert  er  her  spells  an'  cha'ms  an' 
she  got  'em  a  thinkin'  that  she  wa'  a  kinder 


A  Fearsome  Story  235 

she-god-debble  what  wa'  mo'  holy  than  the 
Lamb  an'  when  they  hearn  the  drum  a  rollin' 
they  mus'  come  a  runnin'. 

"Now  Ol'  Miss,  what  wa'  Marse  Thomas' 
wife  an'  yo'  great-gran'maw — Miss  Viginia 
Harrison  as  wa' — wa'  a  great  han'  ter  learn  the 
slaves  Bible  teachin's.  She  done  tuck  lots  er 
pains  with  me  'long  with  a  whole  passel  er 
young  nigger  gals,  but  it  looked  lak  she  kinder 
singled  me  out  'cause  she  'lowed  she  wa'  gonter 
make  a  lady's  maid  er  me.  At  the  same  time 
Marse  Thomas  wa'  a  carryin'  on  Sabbath  school 
fer  the  men  folks.  Si  Johnson,  that  is  Brer 
Johnson,  wa'  his  prize  scholard  an'  owin'  ter  his 
a  holpin'  his  pappy  in  the  mill  he  useter  have 
time  ter  put  his  book  larnin'  he  done  picked  up 
ter  some  'count  an'  while  the  mill  wheel  wa' 
a-doin'  the  wuck  Si  could  set  an'  search  the 
scriptures. 

"When  I  fell  on  my  knees  thar  in  front  er 
that  wicked  ooman  I  thought  the  debble  had  me 
fer  sho'.  The  big  black  man,  what  wa'  owned  by 
the  Macons,  wa'  a  beatin'  on  the  ol'  horse  hide 
an'  the  boom-a-laddy-boom  wa'  a  keepin'  time 
ter  my  heartbeats.  Aunt  Peachy  done  ketch  on 
ter  how  skeert  I  wa'  an'  she  wa'  jes'  that  low- 
lifed  ter  wuck  some  er  her  debble  cha'ms  on  me. 
She  start  a  marchin'  roun'  me  a  singin'  some 


236  The  Shorn  Lamb 

kinder  outlandish  chune  'thout  no  words.  The 
chune  had  a  kinder  swing  ter  it  lak  one  er  our 
chu'ch  chimes,  but  it  wa'  diffunt,  too.  It 
sounded  mo*  wil'  lak,  an'  befo'  you  know'd  what 
wa'  happenin'  all  the  crowd  er  folks  began 
marchin'  behin'  Aunt  Peachy  jes  lak  so  many 
sheep  an*  they  tuck  up  the  chune  same  as  her. 
Even  my  own  mammy  jined  the  others,  but  I 
ain't  never  helt  it  aginst  her  none  'case  I  wa' 
sho'  she  didn't  know  what  she  wa'  a  doin'.  All 
wa'  a  circlin'  roun'  me  'cept'n'  one  young  man. 
It  wa'  Si  Johnson  an'  what  should  he  do  but 
come  an'  kneel  down  by  me  an'  we  foun'  our- 
selves a  sayin'  what  OP  Miss  an*  OP  Marse 
Thomas  done  been  a  learnin'  us  ter  say  out'n 
the  liP  Bible  book  what  they  calls  Pra'r  Book: 
1 0  Lamb  er  Gawd  who  taketh  away  the  sins  er 
the  worl',  have  mercy  upon  us! '  We  said  it  over 
an'  over  until  a  kinder  peace  stol'  over  us  in 
spite  er  the  tumble  dance  what  wa'  a  goin'  on. 
"  I  looked  up  to  the  sky  kinder  lak  I  'spected 
a  sign  er  somethin'  from  Jesus.  The  moon  wa' 
a  hangin'  low  by  that  time  an'  the  shadows  wa' 
gittin'  long.  The  big  hollow  tree  what  wa' 
servin'  as  a  drum  stood  out  black  an'  scrawny 
aginst  the  sky.  All  of  a  sudden  I  seen  the  sign 
an'  I  know'd  somehow  it  wa'  meant  fer  me,  an* 
the  Lamb  er  Gawd  wa'  a  havin'  mercy  upon  me. 


A  Fearsome  Story  237 

I  jumped  up  from  my  knees  an'  I  called  out 
in  a  loud,  clear  voice,  an'  in  them  days  they  useter 
say  I  had  a  voice  lak  a  bell  —  even  though  I  wa' 
so  young  they  useter  call  on  me  ter  lead  the 
singin'  at  meetin's." 

"What  was  the  sign?  What  did  you  call?" 
asked  Rebecca,  her  eyes  shining  with  excitement. 

"I  called  out:  'See  the  cross!  Sinners!  See 
the  cross!'  Sho'  'nough,  thar  wa'  the  cross 
right  thar  befo'  us — an'  it  wa'  the  self -same  ol* 
burnt  tree  with  the  horse  hide  stretched  'roun' 
it  with  the  black  man  a  beatin'  it  fer  dear  life. 

'  'Look !  Look !  We're  in  the  shadder  er  the 
cross!'  I  cried  out  louder  an'  clearer,  an'  all  the 
crazy  dancers  stopped  an'  looked  down  on  the 
groun'  an'  seed  the  shadder  an*  then  they  looked 
up  an'  seed  the  ol'  burnt  tree  a  standin'  out  lak 
a  cross  an'  they  fell  down  on  they  knees  an' 
howled  lak  they  wa'  in  mortal  pain.  Si  John- 
son then  began  ter  'zort  an'  pray  an'  the  black 
man  what  had  been  a  beatin'  er  the  drum  fell 
down  in  a  kinder  fit. 

"The  outlandish  chune  what  they  had  been 
a  hummin'  an'  buzzin'  wa'  still  a  ringin'  in  my 
years,  an'  all  of  a  sudden  it  come  ter  me  that  it 
wa'  pretty  nigh  the  chune  what  we  all  time 
sung,  'Come  Along,  True  Believer'  to,  so  I 
jes'  raised  up  my  voice  in  the  hymn  an'  it  wa'n't 


238  The  Shorn  Lamb 

much  trouble  ter  make  the  change  an'  pull  the 
debble  chune  'roun'  ter  the  hymn  chune." 

"Oh,  please  sing  it  to  me,  Aunt  Pearly 
Gates!" 

"I  ain't  got  much  voice  left,  honey  chil', 
but  this  is  the  way  it  went: 

"'Come  along,  true  believer,  come  along: 

The  time  am  a  rollin'  'roun,' 
When  them  what  stan's  a-haltin'  by  the  way 

Won't  wear  no  glory  crown! 
Oh,  the  moon  shine  white,  the  moon  shine  bright ; 

Hear  the  news  what  the  spirut  tells, 
The  angels  say  there's  nothin'  fer  ter  do 

But  ter  ring  them  cha'min*  bells! 

" '  Almos'  home !    Almos'  home ! 

We  faints  an'  falls  by  spells: 
Angels  say  th'ain't  nothin'  fer  to  do 

But  ter  ring  them  cha'min*  bells ! ' J 

The  sweet  old  voice  rose  and  fell  in  the  lovely 
negro  melody.  Rebecca's  eyes  filled  with  tears 
ss  she  listened,  enraptured. 

"And  then  what?"  she  asked,  breathless. 

"Then  all  jined  in  an'  we  po'  colored  folks 
stood  thar  in  the  moonlight  an*  worshipped 
Gawd  lak  white  folks  done  taught  us  ter  wor- 
rfiip,  with  the  shadow  of  the  cross  fallin'  on  us." 

"Oh,   Aunt  Pearly   Gates,  how   wonderful! 


A  Fearsome  Story  239 

And  what  becam6  of  Aunt  Peachy  after  that?" 
"She  done  slunk  away  an'  nobody  did'n' 
hearn  no  mo'  er  her  conjering  fer  many  a  day. 
The  nex'  thing  we  know'd,  Aunt  Peachy  wa' 
one  er  the  mos'  rombustious  mimbers  er  the 
chu'ch,  prayin*  an*  'zortin'  an'  shoutin'.  She 
allus  had  it  in  fer  me'n  Si,  though,  fer  bus'in' 
up  her  conjer  dance.  Three  or  fo'  years  arfter 
that,  when  me'n  Si  done  got  Marse  Thomas' 
consent  ter  git  married,  Aunt  Peachy  done  tu'n 
up  at  the  wedding,  though  Gawd  knows  she 
didn't  git  no  invite,  an'  she  brung  along  a  bride's 
gif,  a  moughty  fine-looking  glass  water  pitcher 
with  a  crack  in  it.  I's  fear'd  Aunt  Peachy's 
'ligion  an*  her  pitcher  air  jes'  about  the  same: 
neither  one  er  them  won't  hoi'  water." 


Chapter  16 
MAJOR  TAYLOR  IN  DOUBT 

Aunt  Pearly  Gates  was  right.  Spring  had 
come  to  the  heart  of  Spottswood  Taylor.  Re- 
becca rejoiced  in  the  sunshine  of  his  smile.  He 
did  not  always  answer  her  when  she  spoke  to 
him,  but  at  least  he  looked  at  her,  and  that  not 
unkindly,  and  sometimes  he  smiled.  More  and 
more,  he  took  her  part  against  the  aunts.  Ever 
since  he  had  come  to  her  defense  with  what  Re- 
becca designated  as  "that  precious  hell,"  she 
had  been  sure  of  a  champion  when  those  con- 
scientious ladies  felt  in  duty  bound  to  correct 
her  faults.  They  began  to  be  careful  not  to 
admonish  her  in  their  brother's  presence,  unless 
they  were  quite  sure  of  the  justice  of  their  point. 

One  restriction,  to  which  they  clung  with  per- 
tinacity, was  that  Rebecca  should  not  cross  the 
river  alone.  They  considered  their  side  of  the 
river  safe  for  the  child,  but  it  was  a  well-known 
fact  that  the  Boiling  darkeys  were  a  disrepu- 
table lot  and  they  hinted  vaguely  at  terrible 
things  that  might  happen  if  she  continued  to 
cross  the  river  alone  to  call  on  her  friends.  Then 

240 


Major  Taylor  in  Doubt        241 

it  was  that  Spot  came  manfully  to  her  assist- 
ance when  his  father,  for  once,  sided  with  his 
daughters. 

"  She  can  have  Doctor  to  look  after  her.  No 
darkey  living  would  dare  to  come  near  her  if 
Doctor  has  her  in  charge,"  said  Doctor's  master. 

Major  Taylor  looked  at  his  son  quizzically, 
but  refrained  from  bantering.  He  understood 
what  it  meant  to  Spot  to  offer  his  dog  for  the 
child's  protection.  Major  Taylor  well  knew 
that  his  son,  as  well  as  his  daughters,  doubted 
Rebecca's  claim  to  kinship.  Certainly  there  was 
little  in  her  favor.  The  fact  that  she  had  known 
about  Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  and  her  habit  of 
hatching  chickens  in  her  bed,  could  hardly  stand 
in  a  court  of  law  as  proof  that  she  was  Tom 
Taylor's  daughter.  Now  that  her  hair  was 
clipped  close,  Major  Taylor  fancied  he  could 
detect  some  resemblance  to  his  dead  son  in  the 
shape  of  her  head  and  the  way  her  ears  were 
set,  but  he  had  to  confess  ^o  himself  that  he  was 
so  eagerly  looking  for  a  likeness  that  it  was  easy 
to  fool  himself  into  finding  one. 

He  was  constantly  seeing  in  Rebecca  traits 
of  character  that  reminded  him  of  Tom,  the 
same  gallant  fearlessness,  the  same  philosoph- 
ical way  of  accepting  disappointment,  the  same 
faculty  of  seeing  something  amusing  in  the  sim- 


242  The  Shorn  Lamb 

plest  things  of  life.  She  was  certainly  much 
more  like  his  boy  Tom  in  disposition  than  was 
his  own  brother,  Spot.  It  was  like  Tom,  how- 
ever, to  be  so  generous  in  offering  his  dog  to 
protect  a  child.  That  was  not  much  like  Spot  — 
not  the  Spot  his  father  knew,  at  least.  Could 
he  have  been  mistaken  in  Spot?  Anyhow,  he 
was  grateful  to  him  for  befriending  his  little 
Rebecca. 

Whether  she  were  his  grandchild  or  not,  the 
old  man  loved  her  fiercely.  Usually  he  was  sure 
she  was  of  his  own  flesh  and  blood,  but  there 
were  times  of  agonizing  doubt.  This  he  would 
hardly  confess  to  himself,  and  he  would  have 
died  rather  than  let  his  family  know  it.  He  had 
made  a  new  will  so  worded  that  there  would  be 
no  doubt  about  the  child's  inheriting  what  he 
intended  her  to  have,  whether  she  belonged  to 
him  or  not.  He  was  confident  that  she  herself 
believed  Tom  Taylor  was  her  father. 

A  few  days  after  Rebecca's  coming  to  Mill 
House,  Robert  Taylor  had  written  to  Mrs. 
O'Shea,  but  weeks  had  gone  by  with  no  answer 
from  her.  He  had  asked  in  language  most 
courteous  that  she  oblige  him  with  any  and  all 
proofs  of  the  identity  of  the  little  girl  she  had  so 
kindly  sent  him,  also  that  she  should  immediately 
forward  to  him  the  trunk  of  letters  that  had 


Major  Taylor  in  Doubt        243 

belonged  to  his  son,  any  drawings  or  canvases 
executed  by  his  son  and  the  books  left  by  Re- 
becca's stepfather,  which  he  presumed  would 
belong  to  the  child  if  no  other  heir  claimed  them. 

After  three  months  his  letters  to  Mrs.  O'Shea 
had  been  returned  to  him,  stamped  "Not 
found."  He  was  deeply  thankful  to  Providence 
that  he  had  been  on  hand  to  receive  the  mail 
the  morning  the  letters  were  returned  to  him. 
While  he  scorned  his  daughters'  intelligence  and 
judgment,  he  dreaded  their  knowing  that  his 
inquiries  concerning  Rebecca  had  proved  futile. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  now  but  put  the 
matter  in  the  hands  of  a  detective  agency.  He 
would  have  gone  to  New  York  himself  but  for 
the  fact  that  his  hub  factory  was  giving  him  a 
great  deal  of  trouble.  His  manager  had  left 
and  the  labor  question  was  annoying.  He  wished 
Spot  might  be  relied  upon  to  go  to  New  York 
and  attend  to  the  matter  for  him,  but  he  dreaded 
talking  to  his  son  about  Rebecca.  If  the  detec- 
tive agency  had  nothing  favorable  to  report,  the 
old  man  had  determined  to  keep  it  secret. 

He  awaited  with  deep  anxiety  the  report  from 
the  New  York  agency.  He  lived  in  constant 
dread  that  Rebecca  might  learn  that  he  had  con- 
sulted detectives  concerning  the  inhabitants  of 
the  studio  on  West  Tenth  Street.  It  seemed 


244  The  Shorn  Lamb 

like  disloyalty  on  his  part  to  doubt  for  a  moment 
that  she  was  his  own  grandchild.  She  had 
accepted  him  on  faith  and  he  knew  she  thought 
he  had  done  the  same  by  her. 

Rebecca  also  had  written  Mrs.  O'Shea.  Her 
letter  was  returned  with  those  of  her  grand- 
father. He  had  decided  that  he  would  not  let 
her  know  about  it,  not  yet  at  least.  It  might 
cause  his  darling  some  sorrow  to  find  that  the 
woman  who  had  played  such  an  active  part  in 
her  life  and  her  destiny  had  vanished  into  thin 
air. 

Finally  the  detective  agency  reported  that  two 
days  after  Rebecca  left  New  York,  Mrs.  O'Shea 
had  gone  as  stewardess  on  a  vessel  sailing  for 
Calcutta.  She  had  decided  quite  suddenly  to 
accept  the  position,  and  had  left  sketchy  orders 
concerning  mail  to  be  forwarded.  The  report 
added  that  it  was  difficult  to  ascertain  much  con- 
cerning the  former  inhabitants  of  the  studio  in 
West  Tenth  Street.  The  property  had  changed 
hands  several  times  in  the  last  fifteen  years  and 
the  leases  to  the  various  tenants  and  the  names 
of  those  tenants  had  not  been  traced.  It  was 
now  owned  by  a  man  who  lived  in  the  house 
facing  the  street,  where  Mrs.  O'Shea  had  been 
employed  as  janitress.  This  owner  knew  little 
of  the  journalist  who  had  recently  died  in  the 


Major  Taylor  in  Doubt        245 

studio.  He  had  paid  his  rent  irregularly,  but 
always  had1  paid  it.  He  had  seemed  a  quiet, 
refined  person,  a  good  tenant,  in  fact.  There 
had  been  a  child  or  stepchild — the  owner  of 
the  property  was  not  sure  of  the  relationship. 
Mrs.  O'Shea  had  cleaned  the  studio  for  them. 
That  was  about  all  he  could  tell  about  the  dead 
man. 

Several  days  after  the  funeral — the  very  day 
Mrs.  O'Shea  had  quit  her  place  as  janitress  to 
accept  the  job  of  stewardess  on  the  ship  sailing 
for  Calcutta — a  young  woman  had  come  to  the 
studio  demanding  her  property.  Mrs.  O'Shea 
had  identified  her  as  the  wife  of  the  journalist, 
although  she  had  not  lived  with  him  for  several 
years.  The  rent  having  been  paid  in  advance 
before  the  tenant  had  died  there  was  no  reason 
for  holding  the  studio  furnishings,  and  they  had 
been  carted  off  by  the  pretty  young  woman. 
There  was  little  of  value  left  in  the  apartment, 
as  the  long  illness  of  the  tenant  had  necessitated 
the  disposal  of  much  of  the  furnishings.  The 
owner  had  noted  that  there  were  a  good  many 
old  books,  some  pictures  and  trunks  and  shabby 
divans.  Where  the  van  had  carried  the  things 
he  could  not  say.  He  remembered  there  had 
been  a  slight  altercation  between  Mrs.  O'Shea 
and  the  young  woman  concerning  a  missing  bon- 


246  The  Shorn  Lamb 

net  which  had  been  left  in  a  closet  of  the  studio. 
He  gathered  the  bonnet  was  of  crepe,  the  kind 
often  worn  by  widows. 

That  was  all.  The  neighbors  who  might  pos- 
sibly have  known  the  journalist  were  not  to  be 
found.  Some  people  named  Mygatt  had  gone 
to  Paris.  If  there  were  friends,  which  no  doubt 
there  were,  the  detectives  had  not  been  able  to 
trace  them. 

"Stupid  fools!"  exclaimed  Robert  Taylor. 
"There  must  be  some  way  to  find  out  more 
about  my  child.  Why  don't  they  look  up  birth 
certificates?"  Then  he  remembered  Rebecca 
told  him  she  had  been  born  on  shipboard  and 
perhaps  the  birth  had  not  been  reported.  He 
was  ignorant  of  the  regulations  in  such  matters. 
He  wondered  what  had  been  the  name  of  the 
vessel.  Did  Rebecca  know? 

He  asked  her  one  day  quite  casually,  having 
led  the  conversation  to  ships,  but  she  did  not 
know.  Another  time  he  asked  her  if  she  had 
any  idea  as  to  what  had  become  of  the  dancing 
lady  whom  she  had  called  Mamma — where  she 
was  and  what  her  stage  name  might  be,  if  she 
had  one,  but  Rebecca  had  no  idea. 

"  She  used  to  call  herself  Nell  Morgan  before 
she  married  Papa  but  she  dropped  that  name, 
which  wasn't  her  real  name,  and  called  herself 


Major  Taylor  in  Doubt        247 

Madame  Ernst  Sorel,"  said  Rebecca.  "After 
she  married  Daddy  of  course  she  went  by  his 
name  and  when  she  left  us  I  don't  know  what 
she  called  herself.  She  might  have  made  a  big 
name  for  herself  if  she  hadn't  have  been  so 
busy  getting  married.  At  least,  that  is  what  I 
heard  one  of  the  men  say  at  the  studio.  He 
was  talking  to  a  painty  girl  and  didn't  know 
I  heard  him.  I'm  kind  of  sorry  for  poor 
Mamma.  She  had  too  much  temperament  for 
her  sense." 

The  Misses  Taylor  had  gathered  from  various 
sources  that  their  father  was  in  communication 
with  persons  in  New  York  and  were  sure  that, 
had  he  proof  of  Rebecca's  parentage,  he  would 
have  divulged  it.  Spot  was  uncertain  what  to 
think  about  the  child,  but  he  had  begun  to  like 
her  so  much  it  made  little  difference  to  him 
whether  she  had  Taylor  blood  in  her  veins  or 
not. 

Spot's  feeling  about  Taylor  blood  was  not 
so  intense  as  his  sisters'.  In  fact  he  rather  pre- 
ferred any  other  blood.  Certainly  his  own  fam- 
ily had  never  done  anything  to  endear  them- 
selves to  the  young  man.  His  sisters  seemed 
to  feel  that  he  was  merely  someone  who  might 
fetch  and  carry  for  them,  see  to  it  that  they  had 
plenty  of  early  vegetables  and  that  the  cows 


248  The  Shorn  Lamb 

were  kept  up  to  the  mark  for  milk  and  butter 
and  that  the  hogs  were  properly  fattened  to  the 
important  end  of  being  turned  into  good  bacon. 
He  respected  and  admired  his  father,  but  was 
always  awkward  and  uneasy  in  his  presence,  feel- 
ing confident  that  the  old  man  was  finding  some- 
thing about  him  to  cause  extreme  amusement. 

The  relations  who  occasionally  visited  at  Mill 
House  as  a  rule  took  very  little  notice  of  Spotts- 
wood.  Some  of  them  even  made  him  feel  that 
they  regarded  him  as  the  man-of -all-work  on 
the  farm,  whose  business  it  was  to  see  that  their 
trunks  got  hauled  over  from  the  Court  House. 
The  one  Taylor  he  had  always  loved  and  felt 
easy  with  had  been  his  brother  Tom.  Tom  had 
been  an  ideal  big  brother,  kindly  and  friendly, 
never  twitting  him  with  being  slow-witted. 
S  potts  wood  was  only  a  little  boy  when  his  brother 
went  off  to  be  an  artist  but  he  remembered  with 
clearness  his  grief  at  his  leaving  home  and  then, 
when  he  was  seventeen  and  the  news  came  of 
Tom's  death  in  New  York,  his  poignant  though 
silent  suffering  had  left  a  mark  on  the  shy,  sullen 
boy. 

He  would  have  been  glad  to  be  certain  that 
the  little  girl  was  his  niece,  but  whether  she  was 
his  brother's  child  or  not  she  was  a  clever  little 


Major  Taylor  in  Doubt        249 

kid,  with  plenty  of  spunk  and  a  good  sport  to 
boot. 

And  so  Rebecca's  kinship  rested — undeter- 
mined. Spottswood  was  passively  friendly  and 
his  sisters  were  coldly  hostile  to  the  dark-haired 
little  girl.  And  Major  Taylor  pondered  and 
waited. 


Chapter  17 
BETSY'S  MORTIFICATION 

"How  you  gonter  git — get  to  school  every 
morning?"  Jo  asked  Rebecca. 

"I  don't  know.  They  haven't  decided  yet. 
The  aunts  always  do  a  lot  of  talking  back  and 
forth  before  they  come  to  any  conclusion  and 
Grandfather  is  so  busy  with  extra  work  at  the 
hub  factory  that  he  hasn't  thought  about  it  yet." 

"Well,  Betsy  and  me — and  I — think  it- 
would  be  prime  if  you  meet  us  at  the  mill  every 
morning  and  drive  over  with  us.  I  thought  about 
it  first.  Betsy  says  she  did  but  forgot  to  mention 
it.  That's  the  way  girls  do  when  anybody  gits 
—  gets  ahead  of  'em.  Not  all  girls!  I  think 
you  play  right  fair." 

"  Thank  you,  Jo!  I'm  glad  they  put  off  open- 
ing school  a  week  because  it  gives  my  hair  a 
chance  to  grow  a  little.  I'm  frightened,  any- 
how, about  starting  to  school.  You  ^ee  I  never 
have  gone  before.  I  guess  I'm  going  to  have 
a  hard  time  in  arithmetic." 

"Oh,  shoo!   I'll  learn  you  that.    'Taint  hard" 

250 


Betsy's  Mortification  251 

"  Well  I'll  teach  you  English  while  you  learn 
me  arithmetic." 

The  aunts  promptly  objected  to  Rebecca's 
accepting  Jo's  offer  to  drive  her  to  and  from 
school,  as  they  did  not  wish  to  be  put  under  obli- 
gations to  neighbors  they  considered  as  objec- 
tionable as  the  Boilings,  but  they  could  not  but 
concede  that  it  simplified  matters  and  finally  gave 
a  grudging  consent  to  the  arrangement. 

Rebecca  was  to  meet  the  Boilings  at  the  mill 
every  morning  and  they  were  to  drop  her  there 
on  the  way  home.  Spottswood  offered  to  see 
that  Rebecca  got  to  the  bridge  on  time. 

When  school  opened  Spot's  own  dapper  mare 
was  ordered  to  be  hitched  to  his  red-wheeled 
buggy  and  immediately  after  breakfast  on  school 
mornings  uncle  and  niece  would  spin  over  the 
red  clay  road,  arriving  at  the  trysting  place  in 
time  to  see  the  Boilings  come  jogging  along  the 
lane. 

Betsy  and  Jo  drove  a  horse  known  as  the  grey 
colt,  hitched  to  a  disreputable-looking  old  phae- 
ton whose  better  days  had  been  so  long  ago  that 
brother  and  sister  could  not  recall  them.  The 
grey  colt  might  have  become  grey  with  old  age, 
had  he  not  been  born  that  way.  But  the  young 
Boilings  made  no  complaint  of  their  turnout, 
being  thankful  that  they  had  some  means  of 


252  The  Shorn  Lamb 

locomotion  other  than  their  own  limbs.  Philip 
had  been  forced  to  walk  to  the  Court  House 
to  school  in  all  weathers. 

As  for  Rebecca,  she  adored  both  colt  and 
phaeton.  "They  remind  me  so  of  the  movies," 
she  said. 

Spottswood  seemed  to  have  much  business  at 
the  Tillage  of  late  and  often  he  would  suggest 
that  Betsy  should  get  in  his  buggy  and  Jo  and 
Rebecca  drive  the  colt.  This  arrangement  suited 
all  parties.  Rebecca  was  supposed  to  walk  home 
from  the  mill  in  the  afternoon  but  she  often  found 
her  uncle  waiting  for  her  when  the  grey  colt 
made  his  leisurely  way  down  the  road. 

The  eternal  feminine  in  Rebecca  soon  sensed 
the  budding  romance.  She  thrilled  with  it  and 
did  all  in  her  power  to  further  it,  managing  to 
lead  the  conversation  to  Betsy  when  she  was  in 
her  uncle's  presence  and  to  Spot  when  she  was 
with  Betsy.  Sometimes  she  could  not  help  teas- 
ing a  little  but  she  did  it  with  delicate  adroit- 
ness. 

"I'm  getting  kind  of  uneasy  about  Uncle 
Spot,"  Rebecca  confided  to  her  friend,  "driving 
me  over  every  morning  and  meeting  me  so  often 
in  the  afternoon.  He's  so  anxious  to  spare  the 
grey  colt,  too,  by  taking  part  of  his  load  when 
he  goes  over  to  the  Court  House." 


Betsy's  Mortification          253 

Betsy  blushed  and  whipped  up  the  grey  colt. 

Occasionally  Betsy  came  to  Mill  House  to  see 
her  little  friend  and  Spot  always  managed  to  have 
business  at  the  house  on  those  occasions.  Some- 
times he  even  suggested  to  Rebecca  that  he  should 
drive  her  over  to  the  Boilings.  More  and  more 
did  he  realize  that  Betsy  was  the  girl  for  him, 
although  he  knew  she  was  far  removed  from  his 
family  ideal.  There  was  nothing  of  the  aristocrat 
about  Betsy,  but  what  did  he,  Spottswood  Taylor, 
want  with  an  aristocratic  wife?  He  hac}  heard 
too  much  talk  of  such  things  from  his  sisters  and 
their  friends,  chosen  because  of  their  blue  blood. 
He  wished  he  knew  how  his  father  felt  about  it. 
Tom,  who  every  one  knew  was  his  father's  f aror- 
ite,  had  married  where  he  had  loved,  regardless 
of  family  tradition,  and  his  father  had  promptly 
disinherited  him.  How  could  he,  Spottswood, 
hope  for  greater  leniency  from  his  father,  in  case 
his  choice  of  a  wife  displeased  the  old  gentleman? 

The  whole  county  knew  to  what  depths  of 
degradation  Rolfe  Boiling  had  sunk.  The  fact 
that  in  his  veins  was  as  good  Cavalier  blood  as 
flowed  in  Virginia  made  him  the  more  contempt- 
ible in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbors.  There  was  no 
denying,  however,  that  Rolfe  Boiling's  children 
would  have  done  credit  to  the  worthiest  of  sires. 
In  the  few  months  that  Philip  had  been  home 


254  The  Shorn  Lamb 

the  neighbors  had  recognized  his  worth  and  char- 
acter. As  for  Betsy,  she  was  a  universal  favorite 
with  her  gay  laughing  nature  and  her  ready 
good-humor. 

Spottswood  was  always  hearing  her  praises 
sung  at  the  Court  House  by  old  and  young. 
It  was  spoken  of  as  a  crying  shame  that  such 
a  girl  should  not  be  able  to  have  guests  in  her 
own  home,  but  not  even  Betsy's  insouciance  could 
withstand  the  mortification  of  having  her  friends 
see  her  father  and  Mam'  Peachy  and  the  unfor- 
tunate conditions  in  her  home.  It  was  the  one 
cloud  in  the  sunshine  of  Betsy's  clear  sky.  Some- 
times it  seemed  very  black  to  the  girl  but  her 
nature  was  so  sunny,  her  outlook  so  gay,  that 
she  would  quickly  dispel  the  feeling.  It  was 
absurd  in  that  big  house  not  to  have  a  parlor 
where  she  might  receive  her  friends,  but  her  father 
used  one  front  room  for  his  bed  room  and  the 
other  was  the  family  sitting  room  where  he 
sprawled  all  day  and  where  he  saw  the  persons 
who  came  to  The  Hedges  on  business.  There 
were  two  small  rooms  downstairs  in  the  main 
part  of  the  house  besides  the  dining  room  but 
one  of  them  was  Elizabeth's  sewing  room  and  the 
other  one  was  full  to  overflowing  with  Rolfe's 
plunder,  watermelon  seeds  drying  on  news- 
papers, old  guns  and  fishing  rods,  discarded  bar- 


Betsy's  Mortification          255 

ness  and  saddles,  empty  bottles  and  jugs — a 
miscellaneous  collection  of  odds  and  ends  that 
nothing  but  a  fire  could  ever  dispose  of.  The 
master  of  The  Hedges  never  gave  away  any- 
thing and  never  threw  away  anything  and  the 
consequence  was  his  home  was  overflowing 
with  useless  and  worn-out  articles  that  were  the 
despair  of  his  orderly  wife. 

If  she  had  had  her  way,  Betsy  would  have 
taken  matters  in  her  own  hands  and  cleared  out 
the  rubbish  that  littered  the  one  room  that  she 
might  have  turned  into  a  place  where  she  could 
see  her  friends,  but  Elizabeth  remembered  too 
well  the  moment  in  her  early  married  life  when 
she  had  attempted  to  bring  some  order  out  of 
the  chaos  of  this  lumber  room  of  her  husband's 
and  his  fury  and  Mam*  Peachy's  remarks  about 
the  curiosity  and  interfering  ways  of  the  poor 
whites. 

Rebecca  Taylor  was  almost  the  only  visitor 
who  came  to  The  Hedges.  Sometimes  she  spent 
Saturday  with  Betsy  and  Jo,  and  Uncle  Spot 
would  drive  over  for  her  in  the  evening.  On 
these  occasions  he  would  hitch  his  horse  and  sit 
on  the  front  porch,  talking  shyly  to  Betsy.  Some- 
times the  girl  would  ask  him  into  the  house,  but 
something  always  happened  to  embarrass  her 
when  he  complied.  Either  Mam'  Peachy  would 


256  The  Shorn  Lamb 

come  slipping  into  the  sitting  room,  smelling 
vilely  of  whisky  and  cackling  shrilly  about  Mill 
folks  and  their  perfidious  ways  of  loving  beneath 
them  and  marrying  above,  or  Rolfe  Boiling 
would  appear  in  his  stocking  feet,  the  shirt  that 
had  been  put  on  clean  in  the  morning  as  filthy  as 
though  he  had  worn  it  a  week. 

Elizabeth  would  receive  the  young  man  kindly 
though  stiffly.  She  saw  so  few  persons  outside 
of  her  family  that  her  manner  was  apt  to  be 
distant  and  constrained.  Philip  was  always  cor- 
dial and  pleasant.  He  talked  farming  and  crops 
with  Spot  with  a  seeming  disregard  of  the  em- 
barrassing interruptions  caused  either  by  the  out- 
rageous old  negress  or  his  father. 

Betsy  usually  could  laugh  at  Mam'  Peachy 
and  overlook  her  father's  ill  manners  and  slovenly 
habits  but  when  S  potts  wood  Taylor  was  present 
she  took  their  idiosyncracies  very  seriously,  her 
bright  eyes  would  fill  with  tears  of  mortification 
and  her  usually  laughing  mouth  tremble  with 
hurt  sensibilities. 

"I  can't  and  won't  stand  it!"  she  cried  ouC 
one  evening  after  Spottswood  Taylor  had  driven 
over  for  Rebecca  and  had  come  into  the  house 
for  a  few  minutes.  She  had  asked  him  in  know- 
ing that  her  father  and  Mam*  Peachy  were  safe 
in  the  kitchen  with  the  doors  closed.  She  knew 


Betsy's  Mortification  257 

that  Old  Abe  had  but  recently  arrived  from  his 
periodic  trip  to  the  mountains  with  a  full  jug, 
which  never  failed  to  occupy  the  master  and  a 
favored  few  for  some  hours.  Feeling  they  were 
safely  occupied  and  would  not  appear  in  the  front 
of  the  house  to  disgrace  her,  Betsy  had  been 
quite  cordial  to  the  handsome  neighbor  in  her 
invitation  to  enter  the  house. 

"Come  in,"  she  had  smiled.  "Rebecca  and 
Philip  have  gone  up  to  the  attic  to  find  a  book. 
They  will  be  down  in  a  moment." 

Betsy  could  not  but  be  flattered  by  Spotts- 
wood  Taylor's  evident  admiration  for  her.  She 
had  known  of  it  for  a  long  time — ever  since 
she  was  quite  a  little  girl  in  fact.  For  several 
years  she  had  been  conscious  of  the  fact  that,  in 
the  little  country  church  where  the  Taylors  and 
Boilings  worshiped,  Spot  paid  more  attention  to 
her  profile  than  he  did  to  the  sermon.  How  a 
girl  knows  her  profile  is  being  studied  is  an 
enigma  not  to  be  solved,  but  know  it  she  always 
does.  Spottswood  Taylor's  sisters  had  never 
seemed  to  be  conscious  of  her  having  a  profile, 
even  of  her  having  a  face — that  is  not  until  she 
had  gone  to  Mill  House  to  see  Rebecca  and 
then  the  Misses  Taylor  had  been  coldly  and  for- 
mally polite. 

Betsy  was  a  girl  with  few  complexities  in  her 


258  The  Shorn  Lamb 

nature.  She  was  not  sensitive  like  her  mother 
and  Philip  and  her  father's  habits  and  appear- 
ance formerly  did  not  seem  to  mortify  her  as 
they  had  the  others.  She  had  carelessly  explained 
matters  at  The  Hedges  to  Rebecca  when  she 
first  began  to  go  there  by  saying: 

"Don't  mind  Mam'  Peachy  and  Father!  They 
are  both  kind  of  nutty!" 

But  now  that  Spottswood  Taylor  had  begun 
to  come  to  her  home  the  girl  had  become  rery 
sensitive  about  the  conditions  there.  When  sfee 
broke  out  with  "I  can't  and  won't  stand  it!" 
more  than  usual  had  occurred  to  mortify  her. 
Not  only  had  her  father  come  into  the  sitting 
room  in  his  stocking  feet  smelling  vilely  of  the 
mountain  whisky  but  Mam'  Peachy  and  her  son, 
Old  Abe,  had  followed  him,  both  of  them  drank, 
laughing  loudly  and  coarsely. 

Mam'  Peachy  had  leered  impertinently  into 
the  face  of  the  caller  and  said:  "  Yi!  Yi!  Mill 
House  folk  a  callin*  on  they  betters!  I  mind! 
the  time  when  yo'  great  gran'pap  thought  hissed 
uplif'ed  when  we-alls  'lowed  him  ter  grin*  us's 
cawn.  He  wa*  the  one  what  got  in  he  haid  ter 
start  the  hub  fact'ry  an*  come  here  tryin*  ter  buy 
Ian'  on  our  side  er  the  ribber.  We  wouldn't  sell 
ter  him!  Naw!  Not  us-all!  We  done  tol*  him 
we'd  rent  a  lil*  strip  ter  him,  jes  fer  'oommerda- 


Betsy's  Mortification  259 

tion.  We-alls  wa'n't  a  gonter  sell  off  none  er 
vis's  Ian'  but  we'd  rent  some  fer  say  a  hunerd 
years  fer  a  sum  down,  same  as  buyin'." 

"Hush!  You  ol'  fool  nigger!"  admonished 
her  master.  "You  go  on  back  ter  the  kitchen. 
You  ain't  got  no  sense  on  'count  er  that  cawn 
liquor  you  done  been  a  drinkin'." 

"What  did  she  mean?"  asked  Spottswood, 
puzzled.  "Wasn't  the  land  bought  from  your 
family  by  my  great-grandfather?  I  always 
understood  it  was." 

"  She  ain't  a  meanin'  nothin',"  said  Rolfe  Boll- 
ing,  with  the  insinuating  manner  of  a  person 
who  has  drunk  too  much  but  has  just  enough 
sense  to  try  to  conceal  something.  "You  mus* 
'scuse  Mam*  Peachy." 

"  Yes,  you  mus'  scuse  Mam'  Peachy,"  said  Old 
Abe  solemnly.  "  She  wan't  a  meanin'  ter  let  no 
cat  out'n  the  bag." 

"  Ain't  no  cat  in  no  bag,"  said  the  old  woman 
vindictively.  "  Ain't  nothin'  but  a  piece  er  paper 
in  Ol'  Marse's  desk  what  had  writ  on  it  jes'  what 
I  'members.  I  ain't  nebber  fergit  nothin'  in  my 
life.  I's  drunk  now  but  I  still  kin  'member  an* 
I  tell  you  one  thing,  young  man,  you  young 
Taylor  man,  with  yo'  toploftical  ways,  you  an' 
yo'  stiff-backed  sisters  an'  that  mean  ol'  dried  up 
Bob  Taylor  what  thinks  hisse'f  too  good  ter 


260  The  Shorn  Lamb 

'sociate  wif  my  baby  here,  I  jes'  tell  you  ter  look 
out !  I  done  made  a  spell  on  all  er  you  Mill  folks, 
on  you  white  folks  an'  on  all  the  black  folks,  an' 
the  spell  air  a  wuckin'  an'  it  air  wuckin'  quick. 
I  done  got  some  er  that  there  lil'  brat's  har  what 
yo*  stiff -backed  sisters  cut  off'n  her  haid  an'  I 
got  her  tintype  an'  I  done  made  a  cha'm  spell 
what  air  gonter  bring  sorrow  an'  de-struction 
on  all  er  you-all,  root  an*  branch.  I  done  kep' 
that  ol'  fool  Pearly  Gates  in  the  baid  fer  nigh 
on  ter  twenty  years  an'  I  ain't  even  begun  yit 
on  what  I  air  a  goin*  ter  do  ter  the  whole  bilin' 
er  Taylors." 

By  this  time  Mam'  Peachy  was  screaming  in 
high  shrill  tones  and  had  begun  to  jump  up  and 
down  in  a  kind  of  frenzy.  Philip  and  Rebecca 
heard,  even  up  in  the  attic,  and  Philip  came  hur- 
riedly down,  Rebecca  following  more  slowly. 

"What  is  all  this?"  he  demanded  sternly. 
"  Old  Abe,  take  your  mother  to  her  room." 

"An'  who  are  you  ter  be  a  givin'  orders  in 
my  house?"  demanded  Rolfe  Boiling  with 
drunken  bluster. 

"I  am  your  son,"  said  Philip  sadly.  "I  will 
take  you  to  your  room,  Father."  He  caught 
hold  of  his  father's  arm  and  led  him  off. 

Rolfe  Boiling  did  not  resist  but  meekly  allowed 
himself  to  be  taken  to  his  room  and  put  to  bed, 


Betsy's  Mortification  261 

weeping  in  maudlin  fashion.  "Mam'  Peachy 
hadn't  ought  ter  a  tol'  that  'bout  jes'  rent'n  the 
Ian'  ter  the  Taylors.  I  wa'  allowin'  ter  git  lots 
er  spo't  out'n  that  there  lease,"  he  whimpered. 
This  unpleasant  incident  cut  short  the  visit 
and,  very  soon,  S  potts  wood  and  Rebecca  bade 
their  friends  good-bye  and  departed  for  Mill 
House, 


"Uncle  Spot,  don't  you  think  we  ought  to 
tell  Grandfather  what  that  terrible  old  woman 
said?"  Rebecca  asked  as  she  drove  home  with 
her  uncle. 

"  I  think  we  should,  although  I  am  sure  there 
is  nothing  in  it.  She  was  so  drunk  she  didn't 
know  what  she  was  talking  about." 

"That's  just  it — she  let  it  out.  Couldn't  you 
see  that  Mr.  Boiling  tried  to  stop  her  and  Old 
Abe  ?  Isn't  she  the  most  horrible  old  person  you 
ever  saw  ?  I  can't  get  over  my  giving  her  a  lock 
of  my  hair.  You  see,  Uncle  Spot,  when  Aunt 
Myra  and  Aunt  Evelyn  cut  off  my  hair  I  felt 
terrible  bad  because  there  wasn't  a  soul  who 
wanted  a  lock  of  it.  I  am  all  the  time  reading 
about  how  people  treasure  the  hair  of  those  they 
love — how  mothers  treasure  the  locks  of  hair 
cut  from  the  heads  of  their  angel  children — and 
it  made  me  lonesome  to  think  that  I  had  all  that 
great  wad  of  long  hair  and  nobody  on  earth 
cared  what  became  of  it.  The  first  time  I  went 
to  the  Boilings'  after  my  hair  was  shingled,  old 

262 


The  Missing  Deed  Book       263 

Aunt  Peachy  was  real  nice  to  me.  She  asked 
me  what  I  had  done  with  all  my  pretty  hair 
and  when  she  begged  me  for  a  lock  of  it  I  was 
right  complimented.  I  never  did  like  her  at  all 
but  I  thought  it  was  real  sweet  of  her  to  care 
about  having  some  of  my  hair.  I  took  over  the 
whole  plait  that  Aunt  Pearly  Gates  had  run 
through  the  hole  in  the  top  of  my  bonnet.  I 
guess  she's  got  enough  to  make  hoodoo  spells  on 
the  whole  family." 

Rebecca  laughed  a  little  uneasily. 

"You  surely  don't  believe  any  of  that  non- 
sense," Spot  said  severely. 

"No-o,  not  exactly — " 

"If  you  are  afraid  of  her,  you  ought  not  to 
go  to  The  Hedges,"  suggested  Spottswood. 

"I'm  not  truly  afraid — just  kind  of  squeam- 
ish. I  like  to  shiver  a  little  all  up  and  down  my 
backbone.  That's  the  way  Aunt  Peachy  makes 
me  feel.  I  know  she  can't  do  anything  to  me 
just  because  she  has  my  plait,  but  it's  kind  of 
fun  to  half  way  believe  she  might,  although  I 
know  in  my  sane  mind  that  she  couldn't." 

When  Spottswood  and  Rebecca  told  Major 
Taylor  of  the  remark  the  old  negress  had  made 
concerning  the  hub  factory  he  only  laughed. 

"Ridiculous!"  he  snorted.  "It  was  taken  on 
a  hundred-year  lease  at  first  by  my  grandfather, 


264  The  Shorn  Lamb 

but  before  I  was  born  my  father  persuaded  old 
Boiling,  that  was  Rolfe's  father,  to  sell  it  out- 
right. He  was  a  man  who  could  be  persuaded 
into  anything.  My  father  wanted  more  land 
than  was  mentioned  in  the  lease  and  while  he 
was  buying  it  he  easily  bought  the  other.  It 
wasn't  supposed  to  be  valuable  land,  but  my 
father  paid  a  good  price  for  it.  Old  Peachy 
can't  beat  me  remembering.  I  can  remember 
what  happened  before  I  was  born." 

"I  suppose  you  have  the  deed,  or  something 
with  which  to  combat  their  evidence?"  asked 
Spot. 

"It  must  have  been  duly  recorded,  of  course 
-  but,  by  Jove,  when  the  Yankees  tried  to  burn 
the  court  house  some  of  those  deed  books  dis- 
appeared! If  that  particular  one  was  among 
them  then  old  Rolfe  will  give  me  some  trouble. 
I  am  sure  there  is  nothing  among  my  father's 
papers  in  the  way  of  proof." 

Major  Taylor  looked  worried. 
'  They  never  have  been  able  to  trace  the  deed 
books  that  were  lost.  It  would  hardly  be  likely 
that  the  Yankees  would  want  to  steal  such  use- 
less treasures  as  old  deed  books.  There  were 
three  of  them  I  believe." 

Investigation  disclosed  that  the  deed  book  in 
which  the  transaction  between  the  owners  of  The 


The  Missing  Deed  Book       265 

Hedges  and  Mill  House  had  been  recorded  was 
one  of  the  three  missing  books.  There  was  no 
evidence  extant  of  the  transaction.  The  fact 
that  Major  Taylor's  father  had  told  him  of  it 
would  hardly  stand  in  a  court  of  law.  Rolfe 
Boiling's  old  lease,  found  in  his  grandfather's 
desk,  would  certainly  be  more  convincing  than 
any  traditional  evidence  Major  Taylor  might 
swear  to. 

That  was  the  way  the  owner  of  Mill  House 
began  to  look  at  the  matter.  He  regretted  ex- 
ceedingly the  recent  improvements  he  had  intro- 
duced into  his  factory.  Wagon  hubs  being  not 
so  much  in  demand  as  formerly,  owing  to  the 
increasing  use  of  automobiles,  he  had  determined 
to  begin  the  manufacture  of  certain  automobile 
parts  and  reduce  the  output  of  hubs.  This  had 
entailed*  a  large  outlay  of  funds.  He  had  been 
sure  the  venture  was  a  wise  one,  but  if  there 
were  any  danger  of  the  lease  on  his  land  being 
terminated  and  the  supposed  owner  not  being 
willing  to  renew  it,  a  grave  loss  might  ensue. 

At  no  time  in  his  life  had  Robert  Taylor  so 
much  wanted  to  make  money.  This  wish  was 
because  of  his  little  Rebecca.  He  felt  that  he 
would  die  happy  if  he  could  leave  her  an  inde- 
pendent fortune.  He  had  enough  to  provide 
amply  for  his  daughters  and  son,  but  he  wanted 


266  The  Shorn  Lamb 

more  money  so  that  he  would  not  have  to  take 
from  the  others  to  leave  to  her.  Now  if  Rolfe 
Boiling  had  the  law  on  his  side  and  was  able  to 
do  this  mean,  underhand  thing,  there  would  be 
little  to  leave  to  anyone. 

Major  Taylor  was  not  a  person  to  await  de- 
velopments. As  soon  as  he  knew  that  the  deed 
book,  in  which  the  purchase  of  the  land  must 
have  been  recorded,  was  missing,  he  determined 
to  go  and  see  Rolfe  Boiling,  after  consulting  a 
lawyer,  whose  opinion  was  that  Boiling  might 
have  a  good  case,  but  the  chances  were  fifty- 
fifty  that  the  court  of  equity  would  decree 
otherwise. 

Major  Taylor  regretted  that  he  had  been  so 
unneighborly  in  his  attitude  towards  Rolfe  Boll- 
ing,  now  that  he  must  have  dealings  with  him. 
He  could  hardly  think  that  the  man  meant  to 
ruin  him.  All  he  had  to  go  on  was  the  drunken 
ravings  of  a  vindictive  old  negress,  no  doubt  in 
her  second  childhood,  since  her  age  was  many 
years  over  a  hundred.  Spottswood  and  Re- 
becca had  taken  her  remarks  seriously,  but  the 
chances  were  they  meant  nothing.  He  hoped 
Philip  Boiling  had  some  influence  over  his 
father  if  he  could  be  contemplating  an  attempt 
to  oust  the  owner  of  the  hub  factory.  He  liked 
Philip  and  he  was  to  be  ever  in  his  debt  for  the 


The  Missing  Deed  Book       267 

service  the  young  man  had  rendered  in  bringing 
little  Rebecca  safe  to  Mill  House. 

It  had  been  years  since  Robert  Taylor  had 
made  a  business  call  at  The  Hedges.  Of  course 
he  had  been  told  of  the  ravages  time  and  care- 
lessness and  vandalism  had  made  on  the  farm, 
once  the  show  place  of  the  county,  and  was  pre- 
pared to  find  things  in  worse  condition  than  they 
were.  Already  Philip's  industry  had  righted 
sagging  gates  and  fence  posts.  No  longer  were 
farming  implements  to  be  found  rusting  in  the 
fields.  Outhouses  that  had  outlived  their  use- 
fulness had  been  torn  down  and  those  that  were 
left  had  been  patched,  propped  up  and  white- 
washed. 

The  negro  quarters  had  undergone  the  great- 
est change.  Philip  had  inaugurated  a  general 
cleaning  up  of  their  premises,  which  had  been  a 
disgrace  to  the  neighborhood.  This  was  the  first 
improvement  noted  by  Major  Taylor  as  he  left 
the  main  road  and  turned  up  the  lane  leading 
to  the  Boiling  farm.  The  negro  settlement 
known  as  The  Quarters  was  on  this  lane  and 
must  be  passed  to  reach  The  Hedges.  This  spot 
had  been  considered  the  most  disreputable  in  the 
county.  Few  deviltries  were  committed  that 
were  not  thought  to  have  their  origin  at  The 
Quarters.  Rolfe  Boiling  owned  the  cabins,  all 


268  The  Shorn  Lamb 

of  which  he  rented  to  the  colored  people,  except 
the  large  one  that  stood  in  the  center  of  the  set- 
tlement. This  building  boasted  of  four  rooms 
downstairs  and  two  attic  rooms,  besides  a  pas- 
sage running  through  the  middle  of  the  house 
that  had  originally  been  opened  at  both  ends, 
but  had  afterwards  been  boarded  up  with  a  rude 
door  and  window  cut  in  the  front.  This  cabin 
had  been  built  by  the  first  Boiling  settling  at 
The  Hedges  and  was  occupied  by  two  genera- 
tions before  the  building  of  the  mansion.  Aunt 
Peachy's  family  had  virtually  owned  this  cabin, 
even  in  slave  times.  Her  father  before  her  had 
lived  in  it  and  now  her  descendants  swarmed 
like  bees  around  a  rotting  hive.  She  had  always 
had  a  room  at  the  great  house,  but  until  the  last 
ten  years,  before  she  became  so  feeble,  she  had 
divided  her  time  between  the  cabin  and  her 
room,  which  was  off  the  kitchen  at  The  Hedges. 
Philip  had  been  powerless  to  effect  much 
change  in  Aunt  Peachy's  house.  It  was  almost 
as  filthy  and  unkempt  as  ever.  But  he  had 
worked  wonders  on  the  rented  cabins,  sternly 
threatening  to  evict  any  tenants  who  did  not 
comply  with  his  regulations.  His  father  had 
turned  the  collecting  of  rents  over  to  his  son. 
It  made  no  difference  to  Rolfe  Boiling  in  what 
condition  the  property  was  kept,  providing  he 


The  Missing  Deed  Book       269 

received  his  rents  regularly.  Up  to  this  time 
Philip  had  been  able  to  accomplish  no  improve- 
ments beyond  a  general  cleaning  and  a  whole- 
sale whitewashing.  Philip's  dream  was  to  make 
enough  money  on  the  farm,  above  what  his 
father  expected,  to  provide  a  surplus  to  be  used 
in  converting  The  Quarters  into  a  model  settle- 
ment. It  could  be  done  with  time  and  energy 
and  a  little  money.  It  was  beautifully  situated 
on  a  ledge  on  the  side  of  a  hill  overlooking  the 
busy  little  river.  A  fine  spring  furnished  excel- 
lent water  to  its  inhabitants,  although  to  their 
minds  water  was  one  of  the  least  of  blessings. 

As  Robert  Taylor  passed  The  Quarters  he 
encountered  a  little  band  of  small  darkeys  on 
their  way  home  from  school.  He  was  aston- 
ished to  note  the  improvement  in  the  children. 
He  could  hardly  believe  they  belonged  to  The 
Quarters.  He  remembered  them  on  a  former 
visit  he  had  paid  the  settlement  on  the  business 
of  getting  extra  labor  for  the  hub  factory  as 
being  mere  ill-mannered  tatterdemalions.  Now 
they  were  a  neatly  dressed  lot  of  children,  car- 
rying their  books  proudly  and  actually  speak- 
ing to  him  politely. 

"That  Boiling  boy  is  what  I  said,  a  throw- 
back," he  said  to  himself.  "He  must  have 
worked  to  accomplish  all  this!  He  must  have 


270  The  Shorn  Lamb 

worked,  and  made  others  work,  too.  He  seems 
to  be  capable  of  the  constructive  carrying  out  of 
plans." 

It  was  a  late  afternoon  in  early  March.  The 
wheat  was  showing  green  in  patches  through  a 
light  snow  that  had  fallen  the  night  before,  and 
which  was  melting  wherever  the  sun  could  reach 
it.  The  red  clay  road  wound  around  the  rolling 
hills,  cutting  the  wheat  field  in  two  and  then 
dipping  suddenly  to  the  straggling  hedge  that 
enclosed  the  yard  surrounding  the  Boiling 
house. 

As  soon  as  the  early  potatoes  had  been  dug 
Philip  had  begun  the  process  of  getting  the 
lawn  grassed.  It  would  take  some  time  to  ac- 
complish a  greensward,  but  a  beginning  had 
been  made.  The  stumps  of  the  great  trees  that 
had  been  felled  the  year  before  he  had  dyna- 
mited and  in  their  places  had  planted  young 
trees  selected  with  great  care.  The  hedge 
around  the  sunken  garden  had  been  trimmed 
and  it  was  no  longer  horse  high,  although  it  was 
still  hog  strong,  but  the  hogs  had  been  removed 
to  a  suitable  pen  made  for  them  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  far  from  the  house.  The  fountain  had 
been  repaired  and  the  little  bronze  boy  was 
standing  firmly  and  gracefully  on  his  sturdy 
legs,  holding  up  the  shell  to  catch  the  drops  as 


The  Missing  Deed  Book       271 

of  old.  Again  the  sun-dial  pointed  the  hour, 
but  its  fluted  column  no  longer  was  used  as  a 
back  scratcher  for  fat  hogs  or  razor-backs.  The 
walks  had  been  graveled  and  flower  beds  had 
been  spaded  and  an  occasional  green  shoot  was 
peeping  up,  in  evidence  that  bulbs  had  been 
planted  there  and  the  early  March  sunshine  was 
tempting  them  to  cast  off  the  light  snow  with 
which  they  had  been  covered. 

Could  it  be  the  garden  would  bloom  again 
with  violets  and  daffodil,  iris,  purple  and  white, 
cornflowers  and  love-in-the-mist!  Perhaps  Eliz- 
abeth again  might  find  time  to  bring  her  sew- 
ing and  sit  on  the  stone  bench  by  the  great 
box  bush.  Again  she  might  find  time  to  open 
the  little  blue  leather  Shelleys,  with  their  deli- 
cate gold  tooling,  and  read  "The  Skylark"  and 
"The  Sensitive  Plant." 

"Yi!  Yi!  Yonder  that  ol'  dried  up  Bob 
Taylor  a  comin*  in  he  buggy!"  cried  Aunt 
Peachy,  peering  through  the  kitchen  window, 
from  which  a  portion  of  the  red  road  could  be 
seen  as  it  dipped  from  the  hill. 

"How  you  know  it's  Bob  Taylor?"  asked 
Rolfe  Boiling. 

"  Know  by  my  nose  an'  my  two  big  toes,  ter 
say  nothin*  er  seein'  him  jes'  as  plain  as  I  kin 
see  you,  my  baby.  He  air  settin'  up  thar 


272  The  Shorn  Lamb 

mighty  proudified.  I  been  a  'lowin'  we'd  be 
hearin'  from  him  'fo'  long,  ever  sence  that  day 
you  an'  me  wa'  a  leetle  bit  happy,  owin'  ter 
Abe's  havin'  fetched  over  the  new  jug.  I  done 
talked  too  free  befo'  that  thar  Spot.  But  it 
ain't  no  harm  done.  We  'lowed  we'd  worry 
them  highfalutin'  Taylors  some,  an'  I  reckon 
we  done  did  it." 

"What  you  reckon  he  air  comin'  over  here 
fur,  Mam'  Peachy?  I  ain't  got  no  business  with 
him.  My  haid  ain't  none  too  clar  right  this 
minute,  so's  p'r'aps  yo  an'  me'd  better  have  a 
dram  befo'  he  gits  here.  Th'ain't  nothin'  like 
a  dram  fer  settin'  folks  up." 

Accordingly  the  cupboard  was  opened  and 
the  jug  tipped  by  the  two.  Then  Rolfe  awaited 
the  arrival  of  his  neighbor  in  the  sitting  room, 
while  Aunt  Peachy  sat  crouching  in  her  arm 
chair  in  the  kitchen,  chattering  to  herself  vague 
snatches  of  sentences: 

"Mill  folks  on  they  knees!  Done  got  even 
wif  ol*  Pearly  Gates !  Look  down  on  my  baby ! 
Ol  Bob  Taylor  been  too  bumptious!  Yi!  Yi! 
Break  they  stiff  necks!  Mam'  Peachy  done 
weave  a  spell  what'll  cha'm  they  luck  away!" 

Philip  had  driven  his  mother  to  the  Court 
House  to  do  some  shopping  and  Rolfe  and  the 
old  woman  were  alone  in  the  house.  This  com- 


The  Missing  Deed  Book       273 

pelled  Rolfe  Boiling  to  answer  Major  Taylor's 
knock.  His  feet  in  woolen  socks,  with  no  shoes, 
he  padded  to  the  front  door  and  opened  it  to  his 
visitor. 

As  the  two  old  men  entered  the  sitting  room 
Aunt  Peachy  crept  from  the  kitchen,  slid  along 
the  hall,  taking  her  stand  at  the  half-closed 
door,  where  she  stood  in  the  shadow,  eagerly 
listening  to  the  conversation  between  her  mas- 
ter and  Major  Taylor. 

The  master  of  Mill  House  immediately  stated 
the  cause  of  his  visit,  explaining  that  his  son  had 
told  him  what  he  had  heard  when  he  had  driven 
over  to  The  Hedges  to  get  Rebecca. 

"  I  am  sure  my  father  bought  the  property 
later  on  from  your  father,  when  he  decided  to 
enlarge  the  plant — that  was  before  either  one 
of  us  was  born.  I  believe  we  are  about  the  same 
age.  My  father  told  me  of  the  transaction.  I 
will  be  frank  with  you  and  tell  you  that  as  far 
as  I  know  there  is  no  record  extant  of  the  trans- 
action, owing  to  the  fact  that  when  the  Yankees 
attempted  to  burn  the  court  house  some  of  the 
deed  books  disappeared.  On  investigation,  I 
find  that  the  very  one  that  must  have  held  the 
deed  conveying  the  land  where  my  hub  factory 
stands  is  missing.  My  father's  papers  were  not 
carefully  filed  and  I  do  not  remember  seeing 


274  The  Shorn  Lamb 

a  record  of  the  deed  among  them.  At  any  rate 
I  cannot  find  it.  Of  course,  it  never  entered 
Father's  head  that  there  ever  would  be  any 
trouble  about  it.  The  land  has  been  paid  for 
once,  but  whenever  the  one  hundred  years 
which  would  mark  the  expiration  of  the  original 
lease,  is  up,  I  will  be  willing  to  pay  for  it  again, 
if  no  record  of  the  deed  is  found  in  the  mean- 
time." 

"Yi!  Yi!  Ol'  foxy  Bob  Taylor  done  come 
a  beggin'  favors  from  the  Bollin's!"  squealed 
Aunt  Peachy,  sidling  into  the  room.  "No,  us- 
all  ain't  a  gwine  ter  let  yer  have  nothin'  er  ourn. 
I'm  here  ter  tell  yer  my  baby  ain't  a  gwine  ter 
listen  ter  yo'  pleadin.'  Tell  it  ter  him,  my  baby, 
tell  it  yerse'f!  Tell  him  how  he's  allus  been 
a  holdin'  up  his  haid  too  high  fer  us-all  on  this 
side  er  the  ribber!  Tell  him  how  he  done  been 
onneighborlylike  ter  us,  him  an'  his  paw  befo' 
him,  an*  his  grampaw  befo*  his  paw.  Tell  him 
how  his  niggers  looks  down  on  yo'  niggers  an*  it 
air  a  gonter  stop!" 

Major  Taylor  looked  at  the  old  negress  with 
a  frown. 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Boiling,  but  would  it  be 
possible  for  us  to  have  a  few  moments  of  un- 
interrupted conversation?" 

His  host  grinned  a  rather  sickly  grin. 


The  Missing  Deed  Book       275 

"Tain't  nobody  but  ol'  Mam'  Peachy,"  he 
said  apologetically.  ''  You  kin  go  on  talkin'  jes' 
the  same  befo'  Mam'  Peachy." 

For  a  moment  the  old  woman  straightened  up 
her  bent  back  and  stood  before  Major  Taylor 
with  an  air  of  defiance.  There  was  for  a  flash 
something  almost  queenly  in  her  bearing,  but 
she  could  hold  the  position  for  only  a  moment, 
and  then  sank  back  into  the  crooked  state  that 
her  great  age  entailed  on  her. 

"Yi!  Yi!  Nobody  but  ol'  Mam'  Peachy; 
but  me'n  my  baby  air  o'  one  min*  consarnin'  all 
the  Mill  folks!  You  kin  tell  that  thar  big  yaller- 
haided  son  er  yo's  that  'tain't  no  use'n  him 
a  makin'  eyes  at  our  Betsy.  We  ain't  a  gonter 
put  up  with  no  foolishness  with  us's  young  lady. 
She  air  too  good  fer  the  likes  er  him,  but  we 
knows  moughty  well  that  Taylor  men  air  allus 
a  seekin'  something  higher'n  what  they  is,  an* 
Taylors  air  got  a  way  er  lookin'  down  on 
Bollin's." 

Major  Taylor  ignored  the  old  woman's 
tirade,  but  he  felt  the  blood  boiling  in  his  veins 
and  was  conscious  that  his  face  was  red  and  the 
hand  that  held  his  hat  trembled  a  little. 

"  I  asked  you,  Mr.  Boiling  to  discuss  with  me 
the  selling  for  the  second  time  the  hub  factory 
site." 


276  The  Shorn  Lamb 

"My  baby  ain't  a-gonter  sell  nothin'l" 
screamed  Aunt  Peachy. 

"I  ain't  a-gonter  sell  it,'  agreed  Rolfe 
Boiling. 

"Well,  then  renew  the  lease  that  you  hold," 
urged  Major  Taylor,  with  a  note  of  pleading  in 
his  voice.  He  was  thinking  of  Rebecca  and  try- 
ing to  keep  down  his  temper,  which  was  almost 
getting  the  better  of  him. 

"Yi!  Yi!  Or  Bob  Taylor  a  arskin'  favors! 
No,  us  ain't  a  gonter  rent  ter  yer,  neither.  The 
Ian'  air  ourn  an'  the  things  what  is  built  on  the 
Ian'  air  ourn.  That's  what  the  1'yer  done  tol'  my 
baby.  Yer  ain't  got  much  mo'n  two  months  ter 
git,  neither,  yer  oP  scrumdudgeon!" 

The  visitor  arose  in  a  fury.  Without  a  word 
to  Rolfe  Boiling  he  walked  out  of  the  room. 

"Don't  fergit  ter  gib  my  message  ter  that 
there  big  yaller-haided  Spot,"  Aunt  Peachy 
called  out  as  he  pulled  the  front  door  open  with 
an  anger  that  was  blinding  him.  The  last  thing 
he  heard  as  he  climbed  into  his  buggy  was  the 
old  woman's  high,  shrill  cackle. 

"Now,  Mam*  Peachy,  yer  oughtn't  ter  a 
spoke  so  roughlike  ter  Maje  Taylor,"  whined 
Rolfe  Boiling  as  he  turned  from  the  window 
from  which  he  had  been  viewing  the  back  of  his 
infuriated  neighbor. 


The  Missing  Deed  Book       277 

"Oh,  shet  yo'  mouf!"  she  shouted.  "I  air 
got  mo'  sense  in  my  wool  than  you  has  in  yo' 
haid.  I  tells  you  ter  let  ol'  Mam'  Peachy  git 
the  reins  an'  she'll  drive  over  that  ol'  Bob  Tay- 
lor till  he's  so  flattened  out  he  won't  have  no 
mo'  thickness  ter  him  than  a  inyon  peel.  Ain't 
the  1'yer  done  toP  you  what  yo'  rights  air?" 
'Yes,  but  he  done  said  ter  lay  low  about  it!" 
'Well,  I  wa'  a  layin'  low,  as  low  as  a  snake's 
hips.  You'd  better  not  be  a  bossin'  er  me.  I 
ain't  takin*  no  bossin'  from  you  nor  no  other 
white  man.  Do  yer  understand"  panted  Aunt 
Peachy  hoarsely. 


Chapter  19 
AUNT  PEACHY  GLOATS 

Philip  and  his  mother  met  Major  Taylor  near 
The  Quarters.  Philip  turned  his  horse  from 
the  clay  road  to  give  his  neighbor  room  to  pass. 
To  the  young  man's  cordial  bow  and  cheery 
"Good  afternoon,  sir!"  the  Major  gave  only  a 
formal  bend  of  the  head  and  a  perfunctory 
touching  of  his  hat.  He  did  not  stop,  but  drove 
rapidly  by. 

"Now  what  is  the  matter?"  asked  Philip. 
"Major  Taylor  has  been  so  cordial  and  kind  to 
me  when  I  have  met  him  lately;  I  can't  see  why 
he  is  so  stiff  and  formal  now." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  afraid  it  is  something  to 
do  with  your  father  and  that  old  paper  he  found 
about  the  hub  factory.  He  and  Aunt  Peachy 
have  been  whispering  about  it  a  lot  lately,  and 
when  Mr.  Spottswood  Taylor  was  over  here  that 
time  they  were  both  so  under  the  influence  of 
that  mountain  whisky  she  said  terrible  things. 
You  J  ,ie  was  not  responsible  and  did 

not  know  wnat  she  was  talking  about,  but  I 
believed  all  the  time  she  did." 

278 


Aunt  Peachy  Gloats          279 

Elizabeth  was  close  to  tears.  She  had  seen 
for  some  time  that  her  little  Betsy's  fancy 
was  leaning  decidedly  towards  the  handsome 
Spottswood  Taylor,  and  she  could  not  but  feel 
that  the  match  would  be  advantageous.  She 
longed  to  have  her  daughter  free  from  the  bale- 
ful surroundings  of  The  Hedges.  Of  course,  if 
her  husband  plunged  into  what  she  could  not  but 
consider  this  disgraceful  business  of  ruining  the 
fortunes  of  the  Taylors,  one  could  hardly  expect 
them  to  receive  a  daughter  of  the  house  of  Boll- 
ing  with  open  arms. 

Betsy,  her  mother  divined,  was  beginning  to 
show  decided  signs  of  being  in  love.  She  was 
a  little  moody,  more  particular  than  usual  about 
her  appearance  and  dress,  finding  new  ways  to 
arrange  her  pretty  hair  and  forever  laundering 
a  blue  linen  dress,  for  which  Rebecca  had  told 
her  Spottswood  had  expressed  admiration. 

Elizabeth  did  not  try  to  persuade  herself  that 
the  Taylors  would  approve  of  the  match,  but 
she  was  sure  that  her  dear  Betsy  could  event- 
ually make  even  the  austere  Evelyn  and  Myra 
like  her  if  she  were  married  to  their  brother. 
Betsy  was  so  sweet,  so  bright  and  gay,  so  good- 
humored  and  obliging.  Major  Taylor  already 
liked  her  girl.  Of  course  he  had  not  contem- 
plated her  as  a  daughter-in-law,  and  he  might 


280  The  Shorn  Lamb 

have  raised  objections,  but  no  doubt  those 
objections  could  have  been  overcome.  But  now 
—  now  that  Betsy's  father  was  preparing  to  do 
this  heinous  thing,  Major  Taylor  could  hardly 
be  expected  to  consent  to  the  match. 

When  they  reached  home  it  was  easy  to  gather 
from  Aunt  Peachy's  chuckling  innuendoes 
what  had  occurred  during  the  visit  of  the  mas- 
ter of  Mill  House.  Philip  had  it  out  with  his 
father,  plainly  showing  his  disgust  at  what  he 
was  contemplating. 

"You  can't  mean  that  you  will  take  advan- 
tage of  this  old  lease  you  have  found  to  try  to 
ruin  Major  Taylor!  You  say  you  can  claim  all 
the  buildings  on  the  land  by  law?  Well,  father, 
if  such  is  the  case,  there  is  something  mighty 
rotten  about  the  law.  You  will  lose  the  respect 
of  the  whole  county  if  you  keep  to  the  letter  of 
such  a  law." 

"Listen  ter  the  young  marster  a  tryin'  ter 
boss  he  pappy!  Tellin'  he  pappy  he  don't  know 
he  own  business!"  cackled  Aunt  Peachy,  who 
had  slipped  into  the  room  after  listening  at  the 
keyhole.  She  never  lost  an  opportunity  to  make 
Rolfe  Boiling  think  Philip  was  belittling  him 
and  in  that  way  she  kept  ever  in  the  father's 
heart  a  certain  resentment  towards  his  son. 


Aunt  Peachy  Gloats  281 

"Don't  yer  listen  ter  him,  my  baby!  Money 
is  what  folks  respect  an'  you  go  on  an'  git  all 
er  ol'  Bob  Taylor's  money." 

Aunt  Peachy  bitterly  resented  the  fact  that 
the  people  of  her  own  race,  even  her  own  blood, 
had  failed  in  their  allegiance  to  her,  who  had 
been  queen  for  a  hundred  years.  Rolfe  Boiling 
was  the  one  person  over  whom  she  held  undis- 
puted sway,  and  more  than  ever  did  she  rule 
him  with  a  rod  of  iron.  When  a  third  person 
was  present  she  made  a  show  of  respect  for  him, 
but  when  they  were  alone  he  might  in  truth  have 
been  her  baby,  so  much  did  she  treat  him  like 
one. 

The  old  negress  spent  her  nights  in  weaving 
weird  spells,  making  strange-looking  figures  of 
putty,  tying  up  bits  of  bone  and  hair  in  filthy 
rags,  which  next  day  she  concealed  about  the 
house  under  carpets  or  mattresses,  behind  pic- 
tures, in  Elizabeth's  work  basket,  even  in  Philip's 
pockets  when  she  could  get  to  them  without 
being  caught.  The  remarkable  thing  about 
Aunt  Peachy  was  that  she  believed  in  her  own 
powers  of  magic,  and  Rolfe  Boiling  believed  in 
them,  too.  He  was  afraid  of  his  old  nurse.  His 
feeling  for  her  was  divided  between  hate  and 
love.  He  had  loved  her  until  lately  and  now 


282  The  Shorn  Lamb 

there  were  times  when  he  really  hated  her.  That 
was  when  he  was  sober.  At  such  times  he  took 
pleasure  in  the  fact  that  his  son  had  the  upper 
hand  on  the  farm  and  that  the  darkeys  obeyed 
his  orders  instead  of  Aunt  Peachy's. 

The  old  woman  would  reproach  him  with  his 
weakness  in  letting  Philip  be  the  master,  but  he 
would  look  slyly  at  her  and  say,  "If  you  ain't 
able  ter  conquer  the  boy,  how  you  'spec'  me  ter 
do  it?" 

He  watched  the  work  of  restoration  on  the 
desecrated  lawn  and  sunken  garden  and  said 
nothing.  Perhaps  a  spark  of  the  noble  founder 
of  the  race  was  still  smouldering  in  his  soul  and 
all  pride  of  family  and  tradition  was  not  dead 
within  him.  He  understood  now  that  Aunt 
Peachy  had  persuaded  him  to  have  the  lawn 
plowed  up,  the  trees  cut  and  the  garden  given 
over  to  the  hogs  to  spite  his  wife  and  Philip. 
He  had  not  quite  understood  it  at  the  time  he 
gave  the  orders  and  Aunt  Peachy's  offspring 
carried  them  out.  He  could  remember  very 
little  about  having  been  a  party  to  the  vandal- 
ism. It  had  occurred  after  the  arrival  of  a  fresh 
jug  from  the  mountains,  and  he  had  not  been 
in  a  state  to  remember  what  took  place.  He 
could  recall  that  when  the  great  trees  were  felled 


Aunt  Peachy  Gloats  283 

he  had  very  much  the  same  feeling  of  finality 
and  sorrow  that  had  been  with  him  at  his  fa- 
ther's funeral.  He  was  glad  that  Philip  had 
planted  more  trees  in  the  old  spots  —  glad,  and 
he  hoped  they  would  live  and  grow  in  spite  of 
the  spells  against  them  that  Aunt  Peachy  was 
making. 

The  old  woman  was  too  feeble  and  too  fearful 
of  the  cold  to  go  out  on  the  lawn  to  do  any  dam- 
age to  the  trees,  but  she  took  a  dry  branch  that 
was  brought  in  with  the  fire  wood,  and  wrapping 
it  with  carpet  ravelings  and  smearing  it  with 
rancid  fat,  she  mumbled  over  it  inarticulate  and 
cryptic  words  and  then  solemnly  burned  it. 
Afterwards  she  announced  to  her  master  that 
the  trees  Philip  had  planted  would  surely  die. 
and  now  with  March  the  sap  had  begun  to  rise 
in  the  young  trees  and  a  faint,  almost  imper- 
ceptible color  on  the  tip  ends  of  the  branches 
gave  promise  of  budding  leaves.  The  old  woman 
noted  this  with  fury.  Hers  had  been  a  religion 
of  bate.  Always  had  she  worked  charms  for 
evil,  for  the  undoing  of  her  enemies,  and  when 
misfortune  befell  anyone  she  was  quite  confident 
that  she  was  responsible  for  it.  Her  followers 
had  believed  in  her  power  until  lately.  Every 
ill  *&at  flesh  was  heir  to  they  had  traced  to  the 


284  The  Shorn  Lamb 

dread  machinations  of  Mam'  Peachy  and  she 
was  as  firm  a  believer  in  her  powers  as  any  one 
of  the  darkeys  in  the  county. 

Aunt  Peachy  had  never  forgiven  Aunt  Pearly 
Gates  for  breaking  up  the  Voodoo  ceremony 
held  down  in  the  clearing  by  the  river.  She  had 
never  forgiven  her  and  had  spent  many  hours 
and  great  ingenuity  in  the  charms  and  spells  she 
was  determined  to  work  against  the  pious  Pearly 
Gates.  Decade  after  decade  had  passed  and  still 
she  never  forgot  the  ignominy  she  had  felt  when 
her  frenzied  meeting  had  been  turned  into  a 
Christian  ceremony.  She  kept  on  trying  to 
bring  misfortune  on  her  enemy  by  the  weaving 
of  many  and  various  spells.  Finally  the  news 
came  to  her  that  Pearly  Gates  had  had  a  stroke 
of  paralysis.  The  doctor  had  given  some  hope 
that  she  might  recover  the  use  of  her  limbs,  but 
Aunt  Peachy  believed  she  could  keep  her  in  the 
bed  forever.  She  was  sure  she  had  accomplished 
this  evil  thing.  She  immediately  went  to  see  her 
poor  victim  and  gloated  over  the  fact  that  she 
was  laid  low. 

It  was  rather  irritating  that  Pearly  Gates 
would  not  acknowledge  her  power,  but  talked 
steadily  about  the  goodness  of  God  and  the 
Blood  of  the  Lamb  having  power  to  heal  her. 
It  would  have  been  more  satisfactory  had  she 


Aunt  Peachy  Gloats  285 

been  able  to  persuade  Pearly  Gates  that  she,  and 
she  alone,  had  brought  this  misfortune  on  her. 
She  had  left  her  with  the  parting  announcement 
that  she  would  never  be  any  better,  no  matter 
what  the  doctor  said — that  she,  Mam'  Peachy, 
would  see  to  it  that  she  never  got  out  of  bed.  A 
day  had  never  passed  in  all  the  twenty  years 
that  Aunt  Pearly  Gates  had  been  bedridden 
that  the  wretched  old  black  woman  had  not  en- 
deavored to  work  her  spells  against  the  invalid. 
Not  only  did  she  work  them,  but  she  saw  to  it 
from  time  to  time  the  news  was  taken  to  her 
victim  that  she  had  not  forgotten  her.  Long 
ago  the  doctor  had  ceased  his  visits  to  Aunt 
Pearly  Gates.  Her  case  was  given  up  as 
hopeless. 

It  was  a  fly  in  the  ointment  that  Pearly  Gates 
refused  to  acknowledge  to  anyone  the  fear  she 
had  for  Mam'  Peachy.  The  one  time  that  she 
had  confessed  it  to  Rebecca  was  the  only  weak- 
ness she  had  shown  in  the  twenty  years  of  her 
invalidism.  She  had  held  firmly  to  her  faith 
in  the  goodness  of  God,  proclaiming  it  at  all 
times.  Nobody  but  her  faithful  Si  knew  of 
her  dark  hours,  when  belief  in  Mam'  Peachy's 
evil  power  got  the  better  of  her  belief  in  the 
all-loving  Father's  infinite  tenderness  and 
mercy.  She  never  openly  confessed  it  even  to 


286  The  Shorn  Lamb 

Si,  but  sometimes  he  could  hear  her  praying  in 
the  night  when  she  thought  he  was  asleep.  He 
respected  her  wish  for  concealment  of  what  both 
of  them  considered  a  disgraceful  fear,  and  the 
old  man  would  silently  pray  with  her. 


Chapter  20 
THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  PROOF 

"Oh,  Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  life  is  very  hard 
right  now!  It  isn't  that  it  is  so  hard  for  me. 
I'm  getting  on  well  enough,  except,  of  course, 
my  aunts  are  as  cold  as  ever  to  me — I  reckon 
they  always  will  be  that.  It's  because  they  don't 
believe  I'm  their  kin.  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to 
be,  and  if  I  could  be  of  Grandfather's  blood  and 
Uncle  Spot's,  I'd  be  perfectly  willing  to  forego 
the  honor  of  being  even  their  poor  kin. 

"It's  Uncle  Spot  and  Grandfather  that  are 
having  such  a  hard  time.  You  see  poor  Uncle 
Spot  has  fallen  head  over  heels  in  love  with 
Betsy  Boiling,  and  Grandfather  and  Mr.  Boll- 
ing  are  having  a  law  suit,  and  although  Betsy 
is  just  crazy  about  Uncle  Spot  she  won't  have 
him  because  Grandfather  is  so  opposed,  and 
then  she  is  so  mortified  at  the  way  her  own 
father  is  behaving.  For  my  part,  I  believe  Mr. 
Boiling  is  losing  his  mind." 

"He  ain't  never  had  none  to  lose,  Beck  baby, 
ain't  ol'  Rolfe  Boiling.  He  ain't  never  had  no 
min'  an'  no  manners  an'  what  heart  he  may  er 

287 


288  The  Shorn  Lamb 

had  in  the  fust  beginning  is  done  been  blackened 
an'  'taminated  long  ago  by  ol'  Mam*  Peachy. 
He  wa'n't  nachelly  sech  a  bad  boy,  but  she  done 
got  holt  er  him  an'  give  him  the  wrong  start. 
I  had  hopes  that  Miss  Elizabeth,  his  wife,  wa' 
a  gonter  help  him  some,  but  Mam'  Peachy  wa' 
too  strong  fer  her.  I  reckon  Rolfe  Boiling 
marryin'  into  that  mounting  fambly  wa'  about 
the  onlies'  thing  he  ever  done  in  all  his  life  that 
Mam'  Peachy  didn't  have  a  ban'  in.  I  don't 
know  how  come  he  flew  the  coop  then.  She  wa' 
as  mad  as  hops  an'  she  ain't  never  forgib  Miss 
Elizabeth  fer  a  marryin'  er  what  she  calls  her 
baby." 

Rebecca  had  come  to  see  her  old  friend  to 
tell  her  of  the  sad  happenings  at  Mill  House. 
She  hoped  that  Aunt  Pearly  Gates  might  have 
some  solution  to  offer  for  the  muddle  affairs 
were  in. 

"  What  does  Mr.  Philip  say  ter  all  this  -here 
carryin'  on?  'Tain't  likely  he  a  gonter  set  still 
an'  let  his  paw  ruin  Marse  Bob." 

"Oh,  poor  Philip  is  doing  everything  in  his 
power  to  make  his  father  stop,  but  Aunt 
Peachy  keeps  on  persuading  Mr.  Boiling  to  try 
and  get  back  the  hub  factory  property,  and  he 
is  just  like  a  real  baby  with  her.  He  is  afraid 
of  her,  too,  I  believe. 


The  Importance  of  Proof       289 

"It's  right  funny,  but  everybody  talks  to  me 
about  the  business.  Philip  has  told  me  a  lot 
about  it.  He  thinks  the  law  and  equity  court 
will  decide  in  favor  of  Grandfather  in  spite  of 
Mr.  Boiling's  holding  that  old  lease  and  the 
deed  books  being  gone,  burnt  or  something." 

"  Laws-a-mussy,  Beck  baby,  I  kin  'member 
moughty  well  that  time  the  word  went  'roun' 
that  the  Yankees  wa'  a  coming.  They  done 
burnt  a  lot  er  co't  houses,  so  they  said,  an'  the 
chanct  wa'  they  wa'  a  gonter  burn  ourn.  Some 
er  the  men  got  ter  wuck  an'  tuck  all  the  things 
out'n  the  buildin'  befo'  the  sojers  got  there  an* 
then  when  some  drunken  sojers  started  ter  fire 
the  place  a  awfficer  come  a  ridin'  up  with  his 
saber  a  glintin'  in  the  sun  an'  he  drove  off  the 
drunks  an'  set  a  gyard  ter  protec'  the  prop'ty. 
Them  there  books  an'  sech  would  a  been  saf't 
enough.  Somebody  done  stole  them  books. 
Mo'n  likely  the  Yankees.  Some  folks'll  jes' 
steal  fer  stealin's  sake. 

"  Air  Mr.  Spot  takin'  on  much  'bout  his  sweet- 
heart?" 

"Poor  Uncle  Spot!  He  most  breaks  my 
heart.  He  doesn't  eat  and  I  don't  believe  he  is 
sleeping  either,  he  looks  so  black  under  his  eyes. 
I  didn't  know  he  loved  Betsy  so  much,  but  he 
told  me  the  other  day  that  he  had  been  think- 


290  The  Shorn  Lamb 

ing  about  having  her  for  his  wife  ever  since  she 
was  a  little  young  girl.  He'd  go  ahead  in  spite 
of  Grandfather  if  Betsy  would  just  have  him. 
He  says  he  is  farmer  enough  to  make  a  living 
for  her,  even  if  Grandfather  won't  let  them  live 
at  Mill  House.  But  Betsy  won't  have  him, 
although  she  had  already  about  got  engaged  to 
him. 

"It  was  the  very  afternoon  that  Grandfather 
went  over  to  see  Mr.  Boiling,  that  day  in  March. 
I  had  a  cold  and  didn't  go  to  school,  but  Uncle 
Spot  made  out  he  had  forgotten  about  it  and 
walked  over  to  the  mill  to  meet  me,  just  as  he 
had  been  doing — except  he  always  drove.  Of 
course  this  walking  over  was  right  foxy  in 
Uncle  Spot,  'cause  it  would  be  right  hard  to 
make  love  to  a  girl  when  you  were  in  one  buggy 
and  she  was  in  the  other.  As  it  was,  he  got 
in  Betsy's  old  buggy.  She  was  alone.  Jo  was 
sick  with  a  cold,  too.  At  least  he  pretended  to 
be.  And,  Oh,  Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  I  wish  I 
could  have  been  there!  I  am  mighty  excited 
about  being  mixed  up  in  a  real  romance. 

"Betsy  told  me  a  little  about  it,  but  she  was 
too  shy  to  tell  me  everything.  She  didn't  know 
how  far  Mr.  Boiling  had  gone  about  that  old 
hub  factory  land  and  she  told  Spot  she  liked 
him  a  little — at  least  that  is  what  she  said  she 


The  Importance  of  Proof       291 

said — but  I  believe  she  said  more  than  that, 
because  that  night  before  supper  I  found  Uncle 
Spot  sitting  in  the  library  and  he  looked  so 
happy  I  just  know  she  said  something  besides 
just  Wang. 

"  I  used  to  think  Uncle  Spot  was  sullen  look- 
ing, but  I  can't  see  how  I  ever  did.  He  has  a 
solemn  face,  but  it  isn't  sullen  any  more.  Even 
now  when  he  and  Grandfather  have  had  such 
terrible  words  between  them  he  hasn't  taken 
back  his  old  look,  but  has  a  kind  of  sweet,  sad 
expression.  I  just  know  he  is  remembering  the 
kiss  I  think  Betsy  must  have  given  him. 

"  Well,  Grandfather  said  terrible  things  about 
the  Boilings,  all  but  Philip,  and  he  spared  him 
just  because  he  brought  me  to  Mill  House.  He 
said  he'd  never  give  his  consent  to  the  marriage 
and  if  Spot  chose  to  disgrace  his  family  by  even 
contemplating  such  a  thing  he  could  leave 
home.  I  guess  my  father  must  have  had  just 
such  a  talk  with  Grandfather,  only  he  wanted 
to  wed  his  art. 

"  Poor  Uncle  Spot  did  not  have  to  choose  be- 
tween his  home  and  his  sweetheart,  'cause  before 
we  went  to  bed  that  night,  after  Uncle  Spot 
told  about  his  kind  of  engagement,  a  colored 
man  named  Young  Abe  came  riding  over  on  a 
mule  with  a  note  from  Betsy  and  I  reckon  she 


292  The  Shorn  Lamb 

told  Uncle  Spot  good-bye  forever  in  that  note, 
because  he  cried  a  little.  I  saw  him." 

Aunt  Pearly  Gates  stopped  tatting  for  a 
moment  and  reached  carefully  under  the  covers 
of  her  bed,  an  intent  expression  on  her  good  old 
face. 

Rebecca  paused  and  looked  at  the  old  woman. 

"'Scuse  me  a  minute,  honey  chiT,  I's  a  lis- 
tenin'  ter  yer  an'  so  interested  in  my  white  folks 
an'  they  troubles  I  come  moughty  nigh  fergittin' 
I  wa'  a  settin'.  I  got  a  duck  aig  in  here  by 
mistake  an*  Gawd  in  Heaven  knows  what  I'm 
a  gonter  do  with  a  baby  duck.  Duck  aigs  takes 
fo'  weeks  to  hatch.  I  put  the  settin*  in  'thout 
payin*  it  much  min'.  Si  brought  it  ter  me  goin' 
on  three  weeks  ago,  an'  it  wa'  'bout  come  dusk 
an'  I  couldn't  see  any  too  clear.  I  never  would 
a  knowed  it  if  Si  hadn't  a  got  ter  huntin'  that 
aig.  He  wa'  a  gonter  stir  up  a  lil*  batter  braid 
an'  th'ain't  nothin*  mo'  rich  like  in  the  way  er 
eatin*  than  duck  aigs  in  batter  braid.  He  'lowed 
he  put  it  in  the  chancy  bowl  an'  he  looked  an' 
looked  till  he  wa'  all  tuckered  out  lookin'.  Po* 
Si  has  a  hard  time  with  me  a  laid  up  in  the  baid 
all  these  years  an'  him  sech  a  han'  fer  losin' 
things.  I  reckon  he'd  been  better  off  if  he  had 
er  los'  me  twenty  years  ago  an'  then  he  wa? 
still  a  right  spry  nigger  an'  he  mought  a  get 


293 

another  wife.  I'm  'fraid  he  couldn't  git  nobody 
wuth  her  salt  ter  marry  him  now." 

"Oh,  dear  Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  please  don't 
talk  that  way!  Uncle  Si  adores  you  and  all  of 
us  adore  you.  Even  the  aunts  love  you,  and  if 
you  should  leave  us  there  would  be  nothing  but 
sadness  at  Mill  House.  Philip  and  Betsy  and 
Jo  love  you,  too." 

"Well,  sometimes  I  gits  moughty  low  in  my 
min'.  When  my  folks  is  havin'  so  much  trouble 
an'  sorrow  it  seems  lak  I  worry  so  over  them 
an'  what  with  settin'  an'  all  I  reckon  I  ain't  had 
a  wink  er  sleep  fer  nigh  on  ter  a  week. 

"I  ain't  quite  clar  in  my  min'  'bout  what  ol* 
Rolfe  Bollin'  is  claimin',  but  I  is  sho'  er  one 
thing,  an'  that  is  if  they  is  a  law  in  the  Ian'  what 
will  take  Marse  Robert's  hub  fact'ry  away  from 
him,  hide  an'  bar,  an'  ban'  it  over  ter  Rolfe 
Bollin',  who  ain't  never  done  a  hones'  ter  Gawd 
day's  wuck  in  his  life,  why,  then  they's  some- 
thing the  matter  with  the  law  an'  I  ain't  near  so 
ap'  ter  feel  lak  'bidin'  by  it.  I  reckon  I'd  have 
a  hard  time  a  breakin'  the  law  a  layin'  up  here  in 
the  baid,  but  I'd  feel  lak  a  tryin'  ter  do  it." 

Rebecca  laughed.  The  picture  of  gentle  old 
Aunt  Pearly  Gates  breaking  the  law  was  funny. 

"Well,  break  the  law,  but  don't  break  your 
eggs.  Maybe  I'd  better  not  tell  you  any  more 


294  The  Shorn  Lamb 

about  our  troubles,  because  you  do  such  sad 
talking  about  dying  and  Uncle  Si  marrying 
again,"  Rebecca  suggested. 

"  Laws-a-mussy,  chil',  go  on  an'  talk.  My 
white  folks  been  a  comin'  down  here  ter  ol' 
Pearly  Gates'  cabin  a  tellin'  her  they  troubles 
fer  so  long  I  couldn't  stan'  my  'zistence  'thout 
I  felt  lak  I  done  some  good  jes'  a  listenin'  ter 
miseries.  What  else  is  a  worryin'  you,  honey 
chil'?" 

"I  wasn't  going  to  mention  my  other  wor- 
ries, 'cause  you  have  enough  to  think  about.  I 
guess  you  can  see  I  am  bothered  about  some- 
thing without  my  telling  you.  You  are  so  sym- 
pathetic, Aunt  Pearly  Gates." 

"Well,  honey  baby,  I  kin  see  a  In"  line  on 
yo'  forehaid  what  don'  b'long  thar  an'  I  notice 
a  look  in  3^0'  eyes  what  is  wrong  ter  see  in  a  In" 
gal  what  ain't  mo'n  in  her  teens.  What  is  it, 
Beck  baby?" 

"Oh,  Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  sometimes  I  am 
afraid  I'm  not  named  Taylor  after  all.  If  I  am, 
why  doesn't  Mrs.  O'Shea  answer  my  letters? 
Why  doesn't  she  send  Daddy's  books  to  me? 
Grandfather  has  written,  too,  and  she  doesn't 
answer  his  letters  either,  or  if  she  has  answered 
them  he  hasn't  told  me. 

"I  may  be  nothing  but  an  impostor  after  all, 


The  Importance  of  Proof 

if  there  is  no  proof  of  my  being  what  I  always 
thought  I  was.  Since  this  business  has  come 
up  about  the  hub  factory  and  I  have  heard  so 
much  talk  about  the  importance  of  proof,  I  feel 
worse  and  worse  that  there  is  no  proof  about 
me." 

Rebecca  wiped  away  her  tears  and  tried  to 
smile.  Her  old  friend  looked  sadly  at  her  and 
with  gentle  words  tried  to  comfort  her. 

"You  is  you,  no  matter  who  you  mought 
be,"  she  asserted,  "an'  Marse  Bob  loves  you 
'cause  you  is  you ;  an'  Mr.  Spot  air  took  wif  you 
'cause  you  is  you.  Becky  baby  mustn't  go  worry 
too  much  'bout  them  letters  an'  things.  Maybe 
you  needs  mo'  fun  in  life  than  you  air  gittin'." 

"Oh,  I  have  a  splendid  time!  I  like  my 
school  in  spite  of  being  behind  in  arithmetic. 
You  see  my  Daddy  used  to  say  that  the  adding 
machine  had  done  away  with  all  necessity  for 
amateur  mathematics,  and  I  hardly  know  a  bit 
of  arithmetic.  I  am  ahead  of  the  others  in  his- 
tory and  geography  and  spelling,  and  I  must 
say  most  of  them  read  like  they  were  spelling 
while  they  are  reading. 

"I  am  astonished  to  see  how  many  things 
happen  in  the  countiy.  I  used  to  think  that  the 
country  would  be  a  place  where  nothing  hap- 
pened but  just  crops  and  weather,  but  some- 


296  The  Shorn  Lamb 

thing  is  going  on  all  the  time.  I  do  miss  the 
shows  I  used  to  see  in  New  York,  but  do  you 
know,  Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  that  Uncle  Spot  is 
going  to  take  me  to  a  show  at  the  Court  House 
this  very  night  ?  I  am  real  excited  about  it. 

"  Poor  Uncle  Spot  was  going  to  get  up  a  real 
party  for  this  show  and  ask  Mr.  Philip  Boiling 
and  Betsy  and  Jo,  but  now  he  can't  do  it 
because  of  the  letter  Young  Abe  brought  over 
on  the  mule.  He  can't  trust  himself  to  say  a 
word  to  Betsy  now.  Even  when  he  takes  me  to 
the  mill  to  meet  her  in  the  morning  he  only 
touches  his  hat  and  never  says  a  word  to  her.  I 
am  sure  his  heart  is  most  breaking.  And  Betsy 
is  looking  pale  and  thin.  It  is  too  bad,  when 
she  is  to  graduate  now  in  a  few  weeks,  and  she 
is  the  favorite  of  her  class,  too,  and  now  she 
won't  look  near  so  pretty  as  she  should  with  her 
roses  all  turned  to  lilies.  I'm  going  to  come 
down  to-morrow  and  tell  you  all  about  the  show, 
Aunt  Pearly  Gates." 

"Well,  I  ain't  never  seed  a  show  an'  they  is 
some  chu'ch  numbers  what  claims  they  is  mos'ly 
run  by  the  debble,  but  I  'low  I'd  like  ter  see 
one  fust  rate.  What  kin'  er  show  is  it? " 

"I  think  it's  a  vaudeville  and  there  will  be 
singing  and  dancing  and  acrobatic  perform- 
ances." 


The  Importance  of  Proof       297 

"Sounds  lak  a  circus.  I  ain't  seed  a  circus 
fer  so  long  I  done  mos'  forgot  they  wa'  sech 
a  thing.  I  sho'  did  useter  love  a  circus.  I's  glad 
you  is  a  goin'  ter  have  a  nice  time,  honey  chiT, 
an'  I'm  glad  Mr.  Spot  air  gonter  fergit  his 
troubles  fer  a  piece." 


Chapter  21 
THE   DANCING   MAMMA   IS   FOUND 

Philip  determined  that  Betsy  and  her  mother 
and  Jo  needed  some  diversion,  too,  and  accord- 
ingly persuaded  them  to  accompany  him  to  the 
show  at  the  Court  House.  Theatrical  perform- 
ances were  few  and  far  between,  and  when  a 
show  was  given  the  town  hall  was  always 
crowded. 

The  Boilings  and  Taylors  arrived  at  the  same 
time,  the  horses  were  hitched  to  adjoining  posts, 
and  as  Philip  entered  the  hall  with  his  mother 
and  sister,  Spottswood  Taylor  and  Rebecca  were 
immediately  behind  them. 

"Let's  all  sit  together,"  suggested  Rebecca, 
slipping  her  arm  in  Mrs.  Boiling's,  whose  other 
arm  was  held  by  her  son,  while  Jo  crowded  in 
next  to  Rebecca. 

The  hall  was  already  beginning  to  fill,  and 
six  seats  in  a  row  not  being  available,  what  more 
natural  than  that  Rebecca  should  remain  with 
her  friends  and  Spot  and  blushing  Betsy  should 
have  to  take  their  seats  side  by  side  a  little 
removed  from  the  rest? 

298 


Dancing  Mamma  Is  Found      299 

"God  bless  Rebecca!"  Spot  whispered  in  a 
tone  almost  inaudible,  but  Betsy  heard  him  and 
blushed  again. 

The  show  was  like  any  other  traveling  vaude- 
ville booked  to  play  in  small  towns.  There  was 
the  usual  song-and- dance  Irish  comedian  and 
the  usual  soprano  who  sang  the  latest  senti- 
mental songs  in  a  voice  that  one  hoped  had  seen 
better  days.  There  was  an  act  by  trained  dogs 
and  one  by  pigeons,  with  the  burning  of  the  tiny 
paper  house  and  the  fire  brigade  of  sleek,  intel- 
ligent birds. 

The  company  brought  its  own  orchestra — 
a  violinist  and  pianist.  After  the  pigeon  act  all 
lights  were  turned  off  and  the  music  changed 
from  the  tinkling  tunes  appropriate  for  the  bird 
act  to  a  mad  whirling  dance.  A  red  spotlight 
was  thrown  on  the  stage  and  in  it  could  be  seen 
the  swaying,  graceful  figure  of  a  lovely  young 
woman,  with  flashing,  devil-may-care  eyes  and 
a  saucy  carmine  mouth  with  teeth  so  white  they 
looked  almost  cruel. 

When  the  small  orchestra  played  the  opening 
bars  of  the  mad  dance  Rebecca  unconsciously 
clutched  Philip's  arm  on  one  side  and  Jo's  on 
the  other.  Her  breath  came  in  short  gasps  and 
for  a  moment  she  closed  her  eyes.  She  opened 
them  on  the  swaying,  whirling,  beautiful  dancer. 


300  The  Shorn  Lamb 

"The  dagger  is  in  her  bodice!"  she-  whis- 
pered. "Watch!  After  the  next  movement  she 
will  snatch  it  out!  Oh,  Mr.  Philip  Boiling,  that 
is  Mamma ! " 

The  child  gave  a  great  sob  and  trembled 
violently.  Philip  put  his  arm  around  her  and 
whispered,  "Do  you  want  me  to  take  you 
out?" 

"Oh,  no  !  I  must  see  her!  She  is  all  that  is 
left  of  my  old  life!  That  is  the  dance  she 
danced  to  make  Daddy  fall  in  love  with  her. 
That  is  the  dance  she  danced  when  poor  Papa 
died.  Oh,  Mr.  Philip  Boiling,  when  it  is  over 
take  me  behind  the  scenes  and  let  me  speak  to 
her." 

"Of  course  I  will." 

The  music  rose  to  wild  heights  and  with  a 
final  twirl  the  dancer  plunged  the  glinting  dag- 
ger into  an  imaginary  victim ;  then  gave  a  pierc- 
ing shriek  and  sank  in  a  glowing  heap  on  the 
floor. 

"How  can  she?  How  can  she?  That  is  ex- 
actly the  shriek  she  gave  when  poor  Papa  died," 
shuddered  Rebecca.  "Can  we  go  now?" 

With  a  word  to  his  mother,  who  was  always 
a  person  to  understand  quickly  and  to  accept 
unquestionably,  and  one  to  Jo  to  look  after  his 
mother,  Philip  led  Rebecca  from  the  hall,  and 


Dancing  Mamma  Is  Found      301 

then  by  a  narrow  passage  they  made  their  way 
to  the  back  of  the  little  stage. 

"This  young  lady  wants  to  speak  to  the 
dancer,"  he  explained  to  the  manager  of  the 
show,  who  combined  in  his  one  person  scene 
shifter,  prompter,  ladies'  maid,  electrician  and 
curtain  raiser.  He  was  engaged  at  the  time 
in  hooking  up  the  dress  of  a  young  woman  soon 
to  go  on  in  the  one-act  play  with  which  the 
performance  closed. 

'You  mean  Nell  Morgan?  Sure,  you  can 
speak  to  her.  She'll  have  to  answer  her  encore 
first.  Nell  always  gets  an  encore  on  that  dag- 
ger dance." 

They  waited  for  what  seemed  an  interminable 
time  to  Rebecca  while  the  music  again  pulled 
her  heartstrings  with  memories  of  the  death  of 
her  stepfather.  Over  at  last!  The  dancer  came 
tripping  behind  the  scenes. 

"Party  wants  to  speak  to  you!"  said  the 
manager  over  his  shoulder  as  he  slid  on  some 
scenery. 

"Me?  I  don't  know  a  soul  in  this  God-and- 
man-forsaken  burg." 

Rebecca  came  forward.  "Don't  you  know 
me,  Mamma?" 

"I'm  not  anybody's  Mamma,  thank  goodness ! 
Guess  again,  kid!  Why,  bless  my  soul,  if  it 


302  The  Shorn  Lamb 

ain't  little  Rebecca!  Heavens,  child!  Where 
on  earth  did  you  come  from?  Now  I  remember 
that  old  O'Shea  did  tell  me  you  had  gone  to 
Virginia.  I  was  mad  enough,  too,  when  I  found 
you  had  taken  my  widow's  bonnet  with  you  — 
worn  it  off.  I  didn't  have  a  rag  of  black  to 
show  respect  for  my  poor  dead  husband.  But 
he  liked  you  better  than  he  did  me  and  it  was 
right  for  you  to  wear  the  widow's  weeds,  I 
reckon. 

"What  did  your  father's  folks  think  of  hav- 
ing their  po*  kin  sent  back  on  their  hands?  If 
I  had  known  about  them  I  certainly  would 
have  shipped  you  to  them  long  ago.  I  never 
thought  of  looking  in  that  old  trunk.  I  might 
have  found  those  letters  and  if  you  hadn't  been 
there  your  Daddy  and  I  would  have  been  living 
together  yet — that  is,  of  course,  provided  he 
hadn't  got  sick.  I  can't  bear  sick  folks — never 
could.  I  knew  all  the  time  he  liked  you  better 
than  he  did  me — found  you  more  his  class.  He 
was  a  clever  guy — poor  old  fellow!" 

All  this  she  rattled  off  without  stopping.  She 
asked  questions,  but  never  waited  for  an  answer. 

"  You've  changed  a  lot,  child!  I  reckon  you 
get  better  eats  than  you  did  on  Tenth  Street." 

"  I'm  real  glad  to  see  you,"  faltered  Rebecca. 
"Do  you  know  why  Mrs.  O'Shea  doesn't  answer 


Dancing  Mamma  Is  Found      303 

rn>  letters?  You  saw  her  in  New  York  after 
I  left?" 

"  The  old  fool  has  shipped  as  stewardess  on  a 
slow  ship  sailing  to  Calcutta.  The  Lord  knows 
where  she  is  by  this  time.  Married  to  a  Chinee, 
more  than  likely.  I  went  to  the  studio  and  got 
my  things.  You  know  everything  there  be- 
longed to  me,"  she  added  a  little  fiercely.  "I 
never  got  a  real  divorce  from  my  husband." 

"I  never  thought — I  guess  there  wasn't 
much  left  there,  'cause  I  had  to  sell  so  much  to 
keep  things  going  when  Daddy  was  sick." 

"Oh,  don't  talk  about  it.  Didn't  you  just 
hear  me  say  I  couldn't  bear  sick  folks?" 

"No,  I  won't  mention  it,  but  Mamma — I 
can't  help  calling  you  Mamma  —  do  you  know 
what  became  of  the  trunk  full  of  letters  that 
belonged  to  my  own  father?" 

"Sure!  I  sent  them  to  storage  with  all  the 
other  junk.  More  fool  me,  too!  No  doubt  the 
storage  bill  will  be  more  than  the  stuff  is  worth. 
I  always  was  a  sentimentalist,  though,  and  I 
couldn't  bear  to  part  with  the  things." 

"Oh,  Mamma,  could  you  send  the  trunk  to 
me  here  in  Virginia?  I  want  you  to  meet  Mr. 
Philip  Boiling.  He  is  my  neighbor  and  the 
best  friend  I  have  here,"  she  exclaimed  as  Philip 
stepped  forward. 


304  The  Shorn  Lamb 

"  Pleased  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Boiling,"  said  the 
dancer. 

"Bless  you,  Rebecca,  I'm  not  going  back  to 
New  York  for  months.  I'm  booked  up  with 
these  barnstormers  until  July  and  then  I'm 
going  to  make  tracks  for  Georgia  and  see  my 
folks." 

"You  might  give  Rebecca  an  order  on  the 
warehouse  company  for  the  trunk,"  suggested 
Philip,  producing  a  fountain  pen  and  tearing  a 
sheet  from  his  note  book.  "  The  trunk  is  marked, 
is  it  not,  Rebecca?" 

"Oh,  yes!  T.  Taylor  is  on  one  end  and  it  is 
plastered  all  over  with  foreign  labels.  It  is 
a  small  leather  trunk." 

"You  will  give  the  order,  won't  you?"  Philip 
asked  with  respectful  courtesy  that  appealed  to 
the  pretty  dancer. 

"Sure,  if  you  ask  it.  Write  out  the  order; 
describe  the  trunk.  Make  it  out  to  bearer  and 
let  me  sign  it.  It's  the  Victory  Warehouse  Cor- 
poration. You'll  have  to  pay  the  back  storage, 
though,  before  you  can  take  anything  out,"  she 
added  shrewdly. 

"I  believe  Grandfather  would  not  mind,  no 
matter  what  it  costs,"  said  Rebecca. 

"So  your  folks  are  rich?" 

"No,  not  rich — at  least  not  now — "  and  then 


Dancing  Mamma  Is  Found      305 

Rebecca  saw  the  blood  mount  to  Philip's  fore- 
head and  she  wished  she  had  not  said  such  a 
thing. 

"  Lost  their  money?  Oh,  well,  folks  that  can't 
keep  what  they  have  don't  deserve  it!  Well,  so 
long,  kid!  I  have  a  date.  Hope  the  old  letters 
will  get  to  you  safely.  I  don't  bear  you  any 
grudge,  even  if  you  did  steal  my  husband  from 
me  and  then  take  my  widow's  weeds." 

With  an  airy  wave  of  her  hand,  the  woman 
turned  from  the  child  with  perfect  indifference. 

Rebecca's  lip  trembled  a  bit,  but  she  forced  a 
smile  and  looked  up  into  Philip's  eyes. 

"She  was  always  that  way.  But,  anyhow, 
we  have  the  order  for  the  trunk  and  before  long 
we'll  have  the  trunk.  Then — then — I  won't  be 
poor  kin  any  more,  but  belong  to  the  Taylor 
family  just  as  much  as  Aunt  Myra  and  Aunt 
Evelyn  and  Uncle  Spot.  Oh,  Mr.  Philip  Boll- 
ing,  you  are  always  saving  me  and  seeing  me 
through!" 


Chapter  22 
A  TERRIFIED  CONJURER 

Aunt  Peachy  spent  more  and  more  time  over 
her  charms,  in  an  endeavor  to  find  some  spell 
that  would  be  more  potent  than  the  tricks  she 
was  sure  Philip  was  up  to.  Betsy  had  said  he 
was  a  better  charm  worker  than  she  was  and 
surely  nothing  short  of  conjuring  could  have 
won  over  all  the  colored  contingent  to  his  side. 
Even  her  own  son,  Old  Abe,  and  all  of  his 
descendants  had  left  her  completely.  They  sel- 
dom came  near  her  now,  not  even  to  bring  the 
choice  morsels  of  scandal  that  she  longed  to  hear 
since  she  had  become  too  feeble  to  go  out  in  the 
world  in  search  of  amusement. 

Sometimes  she  even  fancied  that  Rolfe  Boll- 
ing  was  no  longer  subject  to  her  powerful  and 
evil  will.  Her  piercing  eyes  had  lately  caught 
a  look  in  his  of  hate.  She  knew  he  feared  her 
— she  meant  that  he  should  but  she  craved  his 
love  with  an  eagerness  she  had  never  felt  for  her 
own  offspring.  She  had  a  suspicion  that  if  it 
were  not  for  her  determination  that  he  should 
push  Major  Taylor  to  the  utmost  the  law 

30P 


A  Terrified  Conjurer  307 

allowed,  Boiling  would  weakly  give  in  to  the 
wishes  of  his  family  and  let  the  whole  matter 
drop.  For  this  reason  she  never  let  the  subject 
grow  cold  but  talked  about  it  continually,  con- 
stantly picturing  to  her  master  the  wealth  and 
distinction  that  would  be  his  when  he  got  posses- 
sion of  the  hub  factory. 

She  raked  up  old  scores  between  the  Taylors 
and  Boilings,  exaggerating  the  importance  of 
bygone  trifling  disagreements  until  she  made  it 
seem  that  a  regular  feud  had  always  existed 
between  the  owners  of  The  Hedges  and  Mill 
House.  She  hated  Philip  with  a  venom  that 
poisoned  her  whole  system. 

"The  sight  er  him  makes  my  victuals  bitter 
in  my  mouf ,"  she  would  mutter,  "  an'  'fo'  Gawd 
if  he  don'  eben  tu'n  my  liquor  agin  me." 

She  longed  to  know  in  what  his  superior  con- 
juring powers  differed  from  her  own.  It  never 
entered  her  head  that  he  did  not  employ  some 
occult  methods  to  gain  his  ends. 

The  attic  had  become  more  and  more  Philip's 
place  of  refuge.  Not  only  was  it  the  one  place 
that  Aunt  Peachy  never  entered,  but  it  was  the 
respository  of  his  books  and  tools,  his  drugs  and 
chemicals.  There  he  worked  and  read,  there  his 
mother  came  for  the  quiet  chats,  there  his  little 
neighbor  Rebecca  would  find  her  way  when  he 


308  The  Shorn  Lamb 

had  finished  the  farm  labors,  and  curling  up  in 
an  old  chair  that  he  had  unearthed  from  a  dark 
corner,  she  would  talk  to  him  as  she  did  to  no 
other  person,  not  even  her  grandfather. 

During  the  cold  months,  when  work  on  the 
farm  was  slack,  Philip  had  determined  to  try  to 
repair  some  of  the  beautiful  old  bits  of  dis- 
carded furniture  piled  up  under  the  eaves  of  his 
attic  refuge.  Some  must  be  scraped  with  broken 
glass  and  some  must  be  treated  with  a  strong 
concoction  to  take  off  the  cracking  varnish  that 
had  been  foolishly  applied  by  some  Boiling 
housewife  who  wanted  shiny  furniture.  Aunt 
Peachy  would  sniff  suspiciously  when  the  odor 
of  this  varnish  destroyer  reached  her  nostrils, 
and  then  with  head  on  one  side  she  would  listen 
to  the  mysterious  sound  of  persistent  scraping. 

Philip  had  finally  moved  a  cot  up  into  the 
attic,  because  he  was  constantly  being  annoyed 
by  Aunt  Peachy  slipping  into  his  bed  room. 
Sometimes  he  would  awaken  in  the  night,  con- 
scious of  her  presence.  At  the  slightest  move- 
ment on  his  part  she  would  be  gone  like  a 
startled  rat.  At  last  he  moved  his  clothes  to 
the  attic,  too,  as  one  of  her  conjuring  tricks  was 
to  put  strange  parcels  of  incongruous  and  non- 
descript articles  in  the  pockets  of  his  suits,  in 
the  toes  of  his  shoes  or  in  the  lining  of  an  over- 


A  Terrified  Conjurer  309 

coat.  The  bones  of  a  salt  herring  wrapped  in  an 
old  rabbit  skin  and  sewed  up  in  his  pillow,  where 
it  smelled  most  vilely,  was  the  last  straw  that 
made  him  determine  to  sleep  in  his  beloved  attic. 

By  the  early  morning  light  he  always  paid 
his  respects  to  the  ancestor  hanging  over  the 
highboy,  the  charming  gentleman  in  cue  and 
stock.  Philip  had  looked  him  up  in  the  family 
annals  and  knew  him  to  be  the  one  responsible 
for  the  sunken  garden  and  the  beautiful  pro- 
portions of  The  Hedges. 

"I  couldn't  look  you  in  the  face,  old  fellow, 
if  I  were  not  bringing  back  some  of  the  beauty 
of  the  place,"  he  would  say  to  the  portrait.  "I'm 
slow  but  I  am  sure." 

Philip's  move  was  but  added  irritation  to 
Aunt  Peachy.  More  and  more  she  brooded 
over  it. 

"He  air  sech  a  debble  he  ain't  eben  scairt  er 
hants,"  she  muttered  as  she  crouched  in  her 
chair.  Not  often  was  her  cackle  heard  in  the 
last  weeks.  She  muttered  and  groaned  and 
fashioned  strange  things  of  rags  and  clay  or 
bits  of  putty  with  her  clawlike  hands.  The  only 
time  when  she  seemed  like  herself  was  just  after 
a  visit  to  the  jug,  which  needed  more  frequent 
replenishings  than  formerly. 

"  I's  as  big  a  debble  as  he  is,"  she  declared  to 


310  The  Shorn  Lamb 

herself  after  a  copious  swig  from  the  tin  cup. 
"  If  hants  cyarn't  hurt  him  they  cyarn't  hurt  me. 
I'm  gonter  show  him  an'  show  him  this  very 
night." 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  vaudeville  perform- 
ance at  the  Court  House  and  Rolfe  Boiling  and 
his  old  nurse  were  to  be  left  alone  while  Philip 
took  his  mother  and  sister  and  Jo  to  the  show. 
Elizabeth  had  been  doubtful  about  the  advis- 
ability of  leaving  them  but  had  been  cackled 
down  by  Aunt  Peachy. 

"Sho'I  Go  on!  My  baby  an*  me  air  took 
keer  er  each  other  befo'  any  mounting  po' 
whites  ever  come  along  an'  we  kin  go  on  a 
keepin'  keer  er  each  other.  Ain't  it  the  truf, 
my  baby?" 

Rolfe  had  merely  grunted.  He  had  a  kind  of 
nameless  terror  lately  of  being  left  alone  with 
Mam'  Peachy  for  any  length  of  time,  but  he 
was  too  much  in  awe  of  her  to  voice  his  feelings. 
Before  they  started  Elizabeth  had  turned  down 
his  bed  and  persuaded  him  to  get  in  it.  He  was 
quite  docile  in  complying  with  her  wishes.  He 
hoped  Mam'  Peachy  would  stay  in  the  kitchen 
or  go  to  her  own  room. 

In  the  gathering  dusk  Aunt  Peachy  watched 
the  family  carriage  as  it  disappeared  over  the 
hill  —  watched  it  with  glittering  eyes  and  cursed 


A  Terrified  Conjurer  311 

it  and  its  occupants  with  vindictive  bitterness. 

"All  but  Betsy  and  Jo.  I  ain't  got  no  cuss 
fer  Betsy  and  Jo.  If  I  had  er  had  the  bringin' 
up  er  po'  lil*  Jo  I  could  er  made  him  jes'  lak  my 
baby,"  she  chattered.  "That  there  Phup  never 
would  er  been  lak  him  'case  he  got  too  much  er 
his  maw  in  him — his  maw  an'  some  er  them  oF 
picshers. 

"  If  I'm  a  gonter  spunk  up  enough  ter  go  up 
in  that  there  lof '  I  must  fill  my  veins  up  full  er 
liquor,"  she  declared.  She  deftly  opened  the 
cupboard  with  a  bent  kitchen  fork  and  poured 
out  a  cup  full  from  the  brown  jug. 

"Now  I  mus'  put  on  my  begalia!  I  kin 
conjer  better  in  my  begalia." 

She  slipped  from  the  kitchen  to  her  own  room, 
lighted  a  tallow  candle  stuck  in  a  bottle,  and 
pulling  from  under  the  bed  a  strange  old  raw- 
hide trunk,  opened  it  and  began  to  hunt  in  the 
conglomeration  of  its  contents  for  strings  of 
beads  and  bunches  of  feathers.  She  put  the 
beads  around  her  neck  and  waist,  string  after 
string  made  of  bones  and  buttons  and  bits  of 
colored  glass  tied  and  wired  together.  On  her 
palsied  head  she  placed  a  headdress  of  feathers. 
Then  she  took  a  staff  standing  in  the  corner  and 
carefully  greased  it  with  an  old  bacon  rind. 

"  Now  cyarn't  nothin'  ketch  me ! "  she  asserted. 


312  The  Shorn  Lamb 

She  looked  around  her  crowded,  filthy  room  to 
see  if  there  was  anything  left  undone. 

"I'd  lak  ter  see  myself.  It  done  been  many 
a  day  sence  I  clum'  up  ter  see  my  image.  That 
there  booro  air  too  high  fer  ol'  Mam'  Peachy 
now  sence  she  done  got  so  bent  over.  She  pulled 
from  under  the  bed  a  peculiar-looking  carpet- 
covered  stool,  evidently  home  made.  She  stepped 
up  on  it  and  balanced  herself  precariously  with 
her  staff,  while  she  peered  in  the  mirror. 

"Sweet  debble!  Ain't  I  a  sight  though?" 
she  cackled.  "I  could  make  a  white  man  run, 
sho'  as  shootin*.  I  wisht  I  had  er  thought  er  this 
begalia  sooner  an'  I  could  er  scairt  that  there 
Phup  ter  death." 

With  candle  in  hand  she  made  her  way 
through  the  house  and  began  slowly  to  mount 
the  stairs.  Heavy  breathing  from  Rolfe  Boll- 
ing's  bedroom  gave  evidence  that  her  master  was 
asleep.  She  paused  a  moment  on  the  landing 
and  endeavored  to  straighten  her  bent  back,  but 
the  effort  was  too  much  for  her  and  she  was 
forced  to  proceed  in  her  usual  position  with 
hands  almost  touching  the  floor.  Indeed  when 
she  went  upstairs  her  hands  did  touch  the  step 
immediately  above  the  one  on  which  she  was 
standing. 

"  I's  a  debble !    I's  a  debble !    As  big  a  debble 


A  Terrified  Conjurer  313 

AS  Phup!"  she  kept  muttering  to  herself  as  she 
went  slowly  up. 

The  second  floor  was  reached  and  then  she 
scuttled  to  the  door  in  the  back  hall  which  led 
to  the  attic  stairs.  She  stood  a  long  time  before 
this  door  trying  to  make  up  her  mind  to  open  it. 

"If  I  gits  up  thar  I  kin  fin'  his  conjer  and 
break  it  up  and  then  I'll  be  queen  bee  agin  an' 
I  kin  bring  trouble  on  him  an'  his  maw.  I'm  as 
big  a  debble  as  he  is!  Th'ain't  no  hants  a  hang- 
ing theyse'fs  in  that  there  lof ',  'case  if  they  wa' 
they'd  a  got  Phup  long  ago  'case  he  ain't  no 
mo'  strong  than  what  I  is." 

She  opened  the  door  and  inch  by  inch  went 
up  the  steps.  On  some  steps  she  would  stand 
for  many  minutes,  terror  stricken  at  the  thought 
of  going  any  higher.  She  would  move  her  feet 
back  and  forth  along  a  step,  raise  a  foot  and 
make  a  tentative  motion  to  mount  and  then  draw 
it  back.  Her  candle  was  getting  low  in  the 
bottle.  Some  of  the  tallow  dropped  on  her 
fingers,  burning  them.  This  brought  her  to  a 
realization  that  minutes  were  flying  and  it  might 
be  almost  time  for  the  theatre-goers  to  return. 
With  one  more  desperate  effort  the  old  woman 
glided  up  the  last  four  steps  and  found  herself 
in  the  dread  attic. 

8  'Tain't  nothin'  up  here,"  she  asserted  bravely. 


314  The  Shorn  Lamb 

"  'Tain't  nothin'  but  ol'  broke  up  furnisher  an'  1 
ain't  scairt  er  that.  Lemme  hide  the  conjer  I 
done  fixed  fer  my  fine  gemman,  hide  it  so  he 
cyarn't  fin*  it  an*  then  fin'  out  what  he  makes 
his  cha'ms  out'n." 

She  whipped  from  her  pocket  one  of  her 
precious  charm  workers,  wrapped  in  an  old  sock 
heel,  and  deftly  slipped  it  beneath  the  cot 
mattress. 

"I  'low  you  won't  sleep  so  easy  now,  young 
man." 

The  attic  was  dark  and  the  guttering  candle 
only  made  a  blur  of  light.  Aunt  Peachy  peered 
uneasily  into  the  black  corners,  hardly  knowing 
where  to  begin  on  her  search  for  the  superior 
conjuring  material  that  she  was  sure  Philip 
must  possess. 

"Here  that  there  bottle  er  stuff  what  smells 
so  strong!"  she  exclaimed,  putting  the  candle 
down  on  Philip's  work  table.  "I  reckon  it  air 
rank  pizen."  She  took  out  the  cork  and  sniffed 
suspiciously.  "Fust  111  git  my  claws  on  this 
here."  She  tried  to  put  the  bottle  of  varnish 
remover  in  her  pocket,  but  it  was  too  large,  so 
she  clasped  it  in  her  arms. 

"What  he  gonter  do  with  this  here  broken 
glass?  I  betcher  he  plan  to  grind  it  up  and  put 
it  in  us's  victuals — me  V  my  baby's.  I  gonter 


A  Terrified  Conjurer  315 

beat  him  to  it  an'  'fo'  Gawd  he  gonter  be 
a  squirmin'  in  agony  this  time  termorrow.  I'll 
grin'  it  fine  an'  git  some  in  that  there  speshul 
batter  braid  what  his  maw  makes  so  keerful  fer 
him  'thout  enough  grease  in  it  ter  ile  a  flea's 


The  old  woman  laughed  gleefully  as  she  care- 
fully picked  up  the  bits  of  glass  that  Philip  had 
saved  to  use  for  scraping  the  old  mahogany  and 
put  it  in  her  capacious  pocket. 

Suddenly  the  tallow  candle  flared  up  and 
went  out.  For  a  moment  she  stood  terrified. 
The  dark  always  terrified  her,  but  the  stars  were 
shining  through  the  skylight  and  dimly  lighted 
the  attic.  She  fumbled  in  her  pocket  among  the 
bits  of  broken  glass  and  produced  a  box  of 
matches. 

"  He's  sho'  ter  have  a  candle.  I  seen  one  over 
here,"  she  muttered,  striking  a  match  and  mov- 
ing towards  the  highboy.  The  match  went  out 
just  as  she  reached  the  highboy,  and  then  she 
struck  another  and  held  it  aloft. 

From  the  impenetrable  gloom  the  face  of  the 
portrait  seemed  to  spring  out  at  her — the  face 
of  the  man  with  his  throat  wrapped  up  —  he 
whom  she  had  always  thought  to  be  the  one  who 
had  hanged  himself  in  the  attic.  Frozen  with 
terror,  she  backed  away  from  the  highboy.  The 


316  The  Shorn  Lamb 

match  burnt  itself  out  and  dropped  from   l**i 
nerveless  fingers. 

Slowly  the  old  woman  retreated.  She  could 
not  turn,  could  not  run.  She  clasped  the  bottle 
of  varnish  remover  tightly  in  her  arms,  feeling 
perhaps  it  had  some  potency  to  keep  her  from 
the  terrible  head  that  was  pursuing  her.  Sud- 
denly she  backed  into  one  of  Philip's  suits  sus- 
pended on  a  coat  hanger  from  a  nail  in  a 
scantling. 

"The  hangman  hisse'f!"  she  sobbed. 

A  piercing  shriek  resounded  through  the 
house,  another  and  another — shrieks  so  loud 
and  shrill,  so  blood-curdling,  that  Rolfe  Boiling 
stirred  uneasily  in  his  heavy  slumber  and  opened 
his  eyes. 

"Mam*  Peachy!"  he  roared.  "Where  are 
you,  Mam*  Peachy?  Help!  Help!"  he  blub- 
bered like  a  great  baby  and  covered  his  head 
with  the  quilt. 

Another  shriek!  Yet  another!  A  sound  of 
rushing  and  of  a  falling  body,  and  then  silence! 


Chapter  23 
THE   LOST    IS    FOUND 

"I  saw  a  light  in  the  attic  1"  Jo  exclaimed 
as  they  turned  a  curve  in  the  road. 

"I  am  sure  I  did,  too,  just  for  a  moment. 
Who  OH  earth  could  be  up  in  the  attic?"  said 
Philip. 

"Oh,  you  couldn't  have,"  insisted  Betsy,  a 
gay  note  in  her  voice,  a  note  that  had  been 
woefully  lacking  lately. 

'You  know  Mam'  Peachy  is  afraid  to 
death  of  the  attic,  and  the  stairs  would  be  fat 
man's  misery  for  father." 

The  girl  laughed  happily.  Life  wasn't  so 
hard  after  all.  Her  handsome  lover  had 
shown  himself  to  be  so  much  in  earnest  that 
she  could  not  but  hope  for  the  future.  She 
wouldn't  marry  S  potts  wood  while  her  father 
and  his  father  were  having  this  terrible  law 
suit,  but  after  a  bit  things  surely  would  ad- 
just themselves.  Maybe  her  father  would  lose 
his  suit,  which  would  help  matters  some. 

It  had  been  a  delightful  evening  to  Betsy. 
Spot  had  been  so  gentle,  so  thoughtful,  so 

317 


318  The  Shorn  Lamb 

grateful  for  the  privilege  of  sitting  by  her 
side!  He  had  begged  her  to  wait — not  to 
give  him  a  final  answer  and  to  let  him  go  on 
loving  her. 

Philip  whipped  up  the  horses  and  they 
reached  the  yard  gate  just  as  Aunt  Peachy 
gave  her  first  blood-curdling  scream.  Then 
had  followed  Rolfe  Boiling's  call  for  help. 

Philip  and  his  mother  sprang  from  the  car- 
riage, leaving  Betsy  and  Jo  to  attend  to  the 
horses.  They  were  in  the  house  in  a  twinkling. 
All  was  silent.  Rolfe  Boiling  they  found 
with  his  head  under  the  bed  clothes  and  his 
huge  bulk  trembling  with  fear. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Father?"  asked 
Philip,  but  the  old  man  could  only  sob  like  a 
frightened  child. 

"Where  is  Aunt  Peachy?"  asked  his  wife. 

"It  done  got  her,"  he  finally  sobbed  out. 

"What  got  her?"  asked  Philip,  gently. 

"That  thing  in  the  attic!  I  heard  her 
screaming  when  it  got  her." 

Elizabeth  soothed  him,  smoothed  the  cov- 
ers over  his  heaving  form,  and  even  poured 
out  a  drink  for  him  from  a  bottle  on  the  table 
by  his  bedside. 

As  soon  as  Philip  was  assured  that  his 
father  was  merely  frightened,  he  went  in 


The  Lost  Is  Found  319 

search  of  Aunt  Peachy.  He  had  been  sure 
that  he  had  seen  a  light  in  the  attic,  and  with 
a  lamp  in  hand  he  mounted  the  stairs  to  the 
second  floor.  He  saw  the  door  to  the  attic 
stairs  was  open.  The  strong  odor  of  the  var- 
nish remover  filled  the  hall.  This  puzzled  him. 

"Philip,  wait  for  me!"  called  Elizabeth. 
;'  Your  father  is  all  right  now." 

They  found  old  Aunt  Peachy  lying  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps  dressed  in  her  fantastic  regalia. 
Philip  almost  stepped  on  her.  He  drew  back 
with  an  exclamation  of  horror. 

"I  think  she  is  dead,  Mother,"  he  whispered. 
"  She  must  have  fallen  down  the  steps." 

Aunt  Peachy  had  dried  up  to  the  mere  sem- 
blance of  a  human  being.  Her  head,  with  its 
band  of  feathers,  was  twisted  under  her  poor 
old  body.  The  strings  of  beads  had  some  of 
them  burst  and  the  stairs  were  strewn  with  bones 
and  bits  of  colored  glass  and  buttons.  The  bot- 
tle of  varnish  remover  had  broken  and  the  pun- 
gent mixture  had  made  a  pool  all  around  her.. 

"Don't  touch  her,  my  boy!  Don't  touch 
her!"  Elizabeth  commanded.  "You  must  get 
the  coroner!  You  must,  I  say!  Too  many  times 
have  I  thought  of  killing  her,  and  now  that  she 
is  dead  some  one  may  try  to  prove  I  have  killed 
her,  I  or  you.  God  knows  that  I  have  wished 


320  The  Shorn  Lamb 

that    she   were    dead    for    twenty-five    years." 

Philip  was  glad  not  to  have  to  touch  the  fear- 
some object.  The  coroner  was  soon  reached  by 
telephone,  and  thanks  to  the  habit  of  country 
telephones,  over  which  it  is  impossible  to  impart 
a  secret,  the  news  of  Mam'  Peachy's  death 
spread  like  wildfire  through  the  county.  By 
midnight  not  only  was  the  coroner  at  The 
Hedges,  but  a  crowd  of  people,  white  and  black, 
that  even  a  fire  would  not  have  attracted. 

"Well,  the  ol*  debble  air  a  stokin'  up  this 
night,"  said  a  colored  man  to  his  companion. 
They  had  run  two  miles  across  country  not  to 
miss  the  excitement  of  seeing  the  coroner  sit  on 
the  remains  of  the  dreaded  Mam'  Peachy. 

"Good  Gawd,  man!  Ain't  you  scairt  ter  be 
a  mentionin'  er  ol*  Mam'  Peachy  so  disrum- 
spec'fullike?" 

"No,  sirree!  I  ain't  scairt  no  mo'.  I  done 
been  scairt  er  her  all  my  life,  but  I  allus  heard 
tell  that  conjer  tricks  dies  when  the  conjer 
ooman  dies.  When  they  dies  they  done  loses 
they  grip.  I  reckon  they'll  be  rejicin*  all  aroun', 
now  Mam'  Peachy  air  done  broke  her  neck.  I 
done  stop  at  Brer  Johnson's  cabin  ter  tell  him 
an'  Aunt  Pearly  Gates  the  news.  They  do  say 
him  an'  her  air  the  onlies'  ones  'roun'  these  here 
parts  what  ain't  never  feared  Mam'  Peachy." 


The  Lost  Is  Found  321 

"Yes,  they's  a  wondrous  pair,  them  two. 
They's  pretty  nigh  sanctified,  I  reckon." 

The  coroner's  verdict  was  "Death  by  acci- 
dent." The  accident  being  falling  down  the 
steps  and  breaking  her  neck.  What  she  was 
doing  up  in  the  attic,  attired  in  strings  of  beads, 
with  the  strange  headdress,  was  none  of  the 
coroner's  business  and  he  did  not  attempt  to 
solve  the  riddle. 

Aunt  Peachy's  descendants  down  to  the 
fourth  and  fifth  generation  came  and  carried  the 
shrunken  corpse  to  her  house  in  The  Quarters. 
There  she  lay  in  state  until  the  following  Sun- 
day. Everybody  had  heard  of  Mam'  Peachy 
and  many  were  the  excursions  to  view  the 
remains. 

"Mam'  Peachy  air  sech  a  pop'lar  corp,"  Old 
Abe  explained  to  Philip,  "that  we  is  done 
decided  ter  charge  ter  view  the  remainders. 
Young  Abe  thought  a  nickel  wa'  enough,  but  I 
'lowed  it  wa'  kinder  lowerin'  er  my  mother's 
'portance  ter  chawge  only  a  nickel,  so  I  done 
put  it  ter  a  dime.  I  ain't  los'  none  by  it,  either." 

Rolfe  Boiling  took  the  death  of  his  old  nurse 
quite  calmly,  much  to  the  relief  of  his  family. 
He  was  in  a  strangely  placid  state  of  mind. 
He  seemed  like  a  child  who  had  finally  got  the 
whipping  he  had  needed,  had  accepted  his  pun- 


322  The  Shorn  Lamb 

ishment  and  was  trying  to  be  good.  At  his 
wife's  suggestion  he  stayed  in  bed  for  several 
days.  He  showed  gratitude  to  her  for  the  first 
time  in  their  married  life. 

"Elizabeth,  you  are  a  good  woman,"  he 
said,  and  Elizabeth  wept. 

"  I  reckon  Mam'  Peachy  air  been  a  great  trial 
ter  you.  I'm  glad  she's  dead.  She  was  too 
strong  fer  me.  I  hadn't  ought  ter  let  her  do 
you  so  mean,  but  she  was  too  strong — too 
strong." 

Philip  and  his  mother  determined  to  burn 
everything  in  Aunt  Peachy's  room.  Old  Abe 
was  told  he  could  carry  off  anything  he  valued, 
but  he  wanted  nothing. 

"I's  scairt  she  mought  come  back  fer  her 
things,  so  I  ain't  gonter  have  none  er  them  'roun* 
me,"  he  said.  "I  'low  burnin'  would  be  the 
saftes*  way." 

Accordingly,  very  early  on  the  morning  after 
the  accident  they  undertook  the  horrid  task. 
Betsy  insisted  upon  helping,  although  they  hated 
to  have  her  touch  the  dirty  things  found  in  the 
old  woman's  room.  Many  articles  that  had  been 
lost  by  different  members  of  the  family  were 
unearthed — things  the  old  woman  could  not 
have  wanted  or  used,  but  that  she  must  have 
stolen  simply  for  the  sake  of  stealing. 


The  Lost  Is  Found  323 

Philip  found  treasures  lost  and  mourned  for 
in  his  childhood,  when  toys  were  far  from  plenti- 
ful—  a  top,  a  chipped  agate,  a  Barlow  knife. 
Elizabeth  found  the  silver  spoon  on  which  her 
children  had  cut  their  teeth.  Each  little  dent 
had  been  precious  to  her,  and  its  loss  had,  at  the 
time  of  its  disappearance,  seemed  irreparable. 
Betsy  found  an  envelope  of  kodak  pictures  for 
which  she  had  searched  high  and  low,  a  small 
silver  vanity  box  Philip  had  sent  her  from  New 
York,  a  jeweled  hat  pin  and  a  dotted  veil  on 
which  she  set  great  store. 

The  bureau  drawers  were  bursting  with  use- 
less and  filthy  odds  and  ends.  A  huge  trunk  in 
the  corner  was  covered  with  layer  after  layer  of 
old  blankets,  bits  of  carpet  and  portieres.  The 
trunk  contained  nothing  but  rags  and  old  shoes. 
Aunt  Peachy  had  allowed  nothing  in  the  way 
of  clothing  to  be  thrown  away  at  The  Hedges. 
Rags  were  on  the  bed,  under  the  bed  and  be- 
tween the  feather  mattresses.  A  bonfire  was 
started  some  distance  from  the  house  and  as 
soon  as  things  were  gone  over  they  were  cast 
in  the  flames. 

"Burn  everything,"  insisted  Elizabeth. 
"There  is  no  use  in  looking  over  these  horrible 
rags." 

"  Perhaps  we  had  better  look  before  we  burn," 


324  The  Shorn  Lamb 

was  Philip's  cautious  reply.  "We  may  find 
more  spoons." 

With  a  few  blows  of  the  axe  the  rickety 
wooden  bedstead  made  kindling  for  the  fire  and 
then  on  the  pyre  were  cast  carpets,  chairs,  the 
bureau,  the  huge  trunk,  the  small  rawhide  trunk 
with  the  fantastic  "begalia,"  which  smelled  vilely 
as  it  burned. 

"Put  on  that  stool  next,"  commanded  Eliza- 
beth. 

"First  I  must  rip  it  up.  There  is  no  telling 
what  is  inside  the  old  carpet  sewed  around  it," 
insisted  Betsy. 

The  girl  sat  down  on  the  back  porch  steps 
and  cut  the  twine  and  wires  with  which  the  car- 
pet was  roughly  sewn. 

"Look!  It's  funny  old  books,"  she  cried. 
"Three  of  them!  What  a  ridiculous  old 
woman!"  And  then  Betsy  began  to  laugh  and 
cry  at  the  same  time,  and  her  mother  and  brother 
hurried  to  her.  "  It's  the  old  deed  books,  the  old 
deed  books,  lost  during  the  war!  Look!  Look! 
Papers  dated  Vay  back  in  the  thirties  and 
forties  —  even  earlier!  Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  How 
happy  I  am!" 


Chapter  24 
THE  CLOUDS  BREAK 

"Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  may  I  come  in?"  asked 
Rebecca,  knocking  on  the  cabin  door. 

"  Come  in,  chiT,  I  air  sho'  glad  ter  see  you." 

The  old  woman  had  a  note  of  excitement  in 
her  voice,  and  Rebecca  found  her  propped  high 
on  her  pillows,  her  eyes  shining  and  her  hands 
folded  over  the  counterpane. 

Rebecca  had  never  seen  those  hands  quiet 
before  except  on  Sunday. 

"I've  lots  to  tell  you,  Aunt  Pearly  Gates. 
So  much  has  happened  since  yesterday.  Of 
course  you  know  about  poor  old  Aunt  Peachy." 

"Yes,  chil',  I  knows." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  begin  about  myself." 

Rebecca  told  of  the  show  the  evening  before, 
of  her  stepmother's  dance  and  the  order  for  the 
precious  trunk  with  all  the  letters — letters  she 
was  sure  would  give  proof  of  her  being  herself, 
as  she  expressed  it. 

"  Even  the  aunts  are  interested  now.  I  really 
believe  they  have  honestly  doubted  me  all  the 
time,  and  maybe  it  has  been  kind  of  hard  on 

325 


326  The  Shorn  Lamb 

them  having  me  here.    I  am  sure  the  letters  will 
clear  it  all  up." 

"Honey  baby,  I  am  glad,  moughty  glad. 
You  air  a  turnin'  the  sock  heel,  jes'  lak  you  wa* 
in  my  dream." 

"Another  thing  has  happened  even  more  im- 
portant, Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  'cause  it  is  straight- 
ening up  what  is  going  to  be,  and  my  news  is 
only  what  was.  The  future  is  lots  more  impor- 
tant than  the  past.  This  is  Uncle  Spot's  and 
Betsy's  business  and  Grandfather's.  This  morn- 
ing, just  before  Grandfather  started  to  the  hub 
factory,  who  should  come  driving  up  to  Mill 
House  but  Betsy  Boiling  and  Jo.  Gee!  Aunt 
Pearly  Gates,  she  was  pretty.  Her  hair  was  all 
rumpled  and  curly  and  her  cheeks  were  as  pink 
as  Cherokee  roses.  Uncle  Spot  had  gone  to  the 
fields,  but  he  recognized  the  grey  colt  coming 
along  the  road  and  he  hurried  back  to  the  house. 
He  got  right  pale  when  he  saw  Betsy  was  in  the 
buggy.  Aunt  Myra  and  Aunt  Evelyn  were 
sitting  on  the  front  porch  with  Grandfather 
waiting  for  the  mail,  and  I  was  humped  up  on 
the  steps,  wondering  if  I  would  be  allowed  to 
go  to  Aunt  Peachy's  funeral  —  something  I  cer- 
tainly wanted  to  do — when  Betsy  and  Jo  came 
driving  up.  The  aunts  looked  mighty  stiff 
backed  and  aristocratic,  and  Grandfather  looked 


The  Clouds  Break  327 

puzzled,  but  he  got  up  and  started  down  the 
walk  to  meet  Betsy.  She  jumped  out  of  the 
buggy  and  reached  under  the  seat  and  pulled 
out  a  great  package,  and  without  saying  a  word 
to  Uncle  Spot,  who  was  hurrying  along  to  help 
her,  she  went  to  Grandfather  and  held  out  the 
heavy  package  to  him. 

"  *  The  deed  books/  she  said.  *  I  found  them 
in  Aunt  Peachy's  room.'  And  do  you  know, 
Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  Grandfather  just  took 
Betsy  and  the  deed  books  all  in  his  arms  and 
hugged  them  and  kissed  them!  I  mean,  of 
course,  he  hugged  both  of  them,  but  kissed  only 
Betsy.  And  then  there  was  such  another  get- 
ting together  as  you  never  saw.  The  aunts  were 
gracious  and  shook  hands  with  Betsy,  and  Uncle 
Spot  looked  like  he  was  going  to  die  right  there 
from  absolute  happiness.  Grandfather  apolo- 
gized for  having  been  so  nasty  to  the  Boiling 
family,  and  Betsy  just  laughed  and  blushed  and 
said  she  must  be  going  home  to  help  her  mother, 
and  Grandfather  told  Uncle  Spot  he  had  better 
call  it  a  day  and  lay  off  and  see  his  sweetheart 
home  —  and  that's  all!" 

"Well,  Gawd  be  praised!  When  Marse  Bob 
do  come  'roun'  he  sho'  do  come  'roun'  right.  I 
reckon  he  air  already  plannin'  a  new  wing  ter 
Mill  House  fer  Marse  Spot's  wife." 


328  The  Shorn  Lamb 

"And  then,  Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  guess  what 
that  saucy  Jo  said!" 

"What  he  say,  chil'?"  laughed  Aunt  Pearly 
Gates. 

"He  said  that  he  would  be  my  uncle-in-law 
and  I'd  have  to  mind  everything  he  said.  And  I 
said  it  would  depend  on  what  he'd  tell  me  to  do 
—  and  he  had  the  impertinence  to  whisper  that 
when  I  grew  up  he  might  make  me  marry  him. 
I  told  him  he'd  have  to  get  to  be  a  lot  more 
like  his  brother  before  I'd  even  consider  him." 

"And  what  did  Marse  Bob  say  to  that?" 

"  Grandfather  laughed,  and  said  there  would 
have  to  be  a  few  more  deed  books  lost  and  found 
before  he'd  consent  to  any  more  joining  of 
hands  across  the  water,  but  he  seemed  to  like 
Jo  because  Jo  wasn't  a  bit  afraid  of  him. 

"But  tell  me,  Aunt  Pearly  Gates,  weren't 
you  shocked  to  hear  about  Aunt  Peachy?  It 
seemed  so  sad  for  everybody  to  be  glad  she  is 
dead.  Betsy  told  me  even  her  father  was  glad." 

The  old  woman  stirred  restlessly,  and  reach- 
ing under  the  covers  turned  the  eggs  which  she 
was  endeavoring  to  hatch. 

"How  did  you  feel,  Aunt  Pearly  Gates, 
when  you  got  the  news  that  Aunt  Peachy  was 
dead?  When  did  you  hear  it?" 


The  Clouds  Break  329 

"It  wa'  las'  night,  honey,  las'  night,   'bout 
half-past  leben  o'clock.     Me  'n'   Si  had  done 
been  asleep  fer  some  hours.     I  wa'  kinder  wo' 
out  with  one  thing  an'  another  an'  I  went  off  ter 
sleep   early.     I   had   woke   up   with   a   kinder 
tingling  an  eatchin'  in  my  foots.     You  know 
sence  I  been  took  so  bad  I  ain't  had  much  er 
any  feelin'  in  my  foots.     Mos'  generally  they 
air  kinder  numb  lak.     It's  been  a  good  thing 
they  didn't  never  eatch,  'cause  you  see  I  ain't 
had  no  power  ter  lif  my  foot  up  ter  scratch  an' 
I  ain't  had  no  power  to  lean  down  so  fur  to  git 
to  'um.    I  ain't  been  able  ter  do  mo'n  jes'  reach 
an'  turn  the  aigs,  which  generally  is  about  by 
my   knees.    Well,    when    this    funny    kinder 
tinglin'  an'  eatchin'  struck  me,  befo'  I  know'd 
what  I  wa'  a  doin'  I  had  lif  up  my  foot  some 
and  wa'  a  reachin'  down  to  it  an'  found'  myse'f 
a  scratchin'  er  my  big  toe.    I  done  it  so  nachul 
I  didn't  give  it  no  min',  but  jes'  went  on  a 
scratchin',  enjyin'  er  myse'f  considerable.     Jes' 
then  they  wa'  a  big  knockin'  on  the  cabin  do' 
an*  Pete  Turner  hollered  out,  'Aunt  Peachy, 
over  ter  Boilings',  is  done  fell  down  the  steps 
an'  broke  her  damn  neck!'    He  never  stopped 
ter  say  mo',  but  jes'  went  on  a  spreadin*  the 
news  on  his  way.    Si  'n'  I  wa'  so  took  back  we 


330  The  Shorn  Lamb 

didn't  have  no  time  ter  git  shocked  over  Pete 
a  cussin'  ter  us.  An'  you  know  what  I  done, 
Beck  baby?  I  sot  up  straight  in  the  baid  an'  I 
praised  the  Lord.  I  sot  up  so  easy  lak  it  didn't 
come  ter  my  min'  that  I  ain't  sot  up  ter  say 
straight,  'thout  pillers  a  proppin'  me,  fur  twenty 
years." 

"Gawd  in  Heaven!  What  yo'  doin',  Pearly 
Gates?"  said  Brer  Johnson.  "Air  you  sick?" 

"  Sick!    No;  I  reckon  I'm  well." 

"An'  then  you  know,  Beck  baby,  it  corned 
over  me  all  of  a  heap  that  Aunt  Peachy  wa' 
daid,  an*  the  conjer  on  me  wa'  lifted." 

"You  mean  you  won't  have  to  stay  in  bed 
any  more?  How  splendid!  But  surely,  Aunt 
Pearly  Gates,  you  don't  really  believe  that  old 
Aunt  Peachy  had  any  power  over  you.  She 
couldn't  have  had." 

"I  don't  know  what  to  believe,  chil'.  All  I 
know  is  that  she  air  dead  an'  I  kin  scratch  my 
big  toe,  which  I  ain't  been  able  ter  do  f  er  twenty 
years.  I  mought  a  been  gittin'  better  anyhow, 
jes'  from  the  nachul  co'se  er  events,  but  it  do 
seem  kinder  strange  that  I  took  ter  eatchin'  an' 
scratchin'  jes'  'bout  the  time  oF  Mam'  Peachy 
fell  down  the  steps.  I  reckon  I  air  gonter  have 
ter  learn  ter  walk  all  over,  but  I'm  a  gonter  be 


The  Clouds  Break  331 

tryin'  it  befo'  so  very  long,  Miss  Beck,  baby. 
"I'd  be  up  an'  at  it  now  if  it  wa'n't  fer  this 
settin'  er  aigs.  The  chicks  will  be  a  comin' 
through  any  time  now.  I'm  'spectin'  of  em  this 
very  day.  As  fer  that  oP  duck  aig — it'll  jes' 
have  ter  spile.  I  ain't  never  'lowed  I'd  turn 
myse'f  inter  no  settin'  duck." 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 

U)  J 


RECEIVED 

MAY     5 1983 

STACK  ANNE; 


315 


^158^83941*9 


